It's Almost Easy
by xxsewnlipsxx
Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair
1. Chapter 1

**Title: It's Almost Easy**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair**

**A/N: Thanks for Reading**

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><p><span>Chapter 1<span>

Hawke stared hard at herself in the mirror, from the split sleeves on her shoulders to the tapering waistline of her wedding dress. If she was completely honest, the dress was a masterpiece. Expensive Orlesian silk sewn onto soft cotton, it breathed marvelously against her skin. The gown was conservative, dipping low over her collarbone but came to a stop right above her breasts where her mother's locket gleamed in the firelight, seated against her bosom. She refused to take it off, even for the wedding. Especially not for the wedding, even though the maids at the castle urged her to select from the array of fine silver jewelry laid out before her on the armoire.

She'd grown out her hair for the occasion, and it fell in soft blond curls around her face. Sometimes, when she turned her head, a stray tendril would catch in the remaining rouge lipstick smeared across her mouth. Hawke had never worn much makeup before. With all the fighting she did, it seemed a waste of time. She wore it for the wedding, though. Her pale cheeks were rosy, her eyes outlined thinly in kohl. Most of the lipstick she had wiped off, much to the dismay of the servants, but she hated the color and preferred the natural pink tinge to her mouth.

A stranger stared at her from a gold-trimmed mirror. Hawke the mercenary would never have worn such an elegant dress or such expensive pins in her hair. She wouldn't paint her face like a prostitute and force herself to smile at the doting servants that were a little too short with their future queen. Hawke the mercenary had short hair, cut hastily with a dagger in the middle of the woods. She slept with a dog in the bed and didn't care that her shoes weren't the latest fashion from Orlais. She spent her days in the woods with a bow across her back, hunting for her food and telling stories by firelight. This creature, this beatific doll in the mirror was not her.

Pressing a hand to her face, she tore her gaze away. What would her mother think, selling herself out for an alliance? The woman who abandoned duty to marry an apostate? Would she be proud because her daughter was standing up for all mages, or would she be disgusted by how easily into politics her daughter had fallen? Hawke could scarcely believe it herself, how well-adapted she was at playing the game. Maker, what would her father think?

_Actually, _she smiled slightly, _Father __would __be __the __one __to __understand. __He__'__d __be __the __one __that __took __Mother__'__s __hand __and __forced __her __to __calm __down._

An hour ago, she'd sent the servants and fluttering attendants away, aggravated at their pushing and pinning and talking. Helpful though they were in some areas, she needed to be alone. Marrying a king had never been on her agenda, especially one she'd only met in passing. As Viscountess, she thought to marry a minor lord. Maybe Sebastian if she decided to give his proposal any thought. Times were hard, though. The Divine was on a mage-hunt if ever there was one, and Hawke had no time to think of her own desires. A union between Kirkwall and Ferelden—the only two safe-havens for mages besides Tevinter in all of Thedas—was paramount. The only way to urge the Chantry to loosen its hold on mages was to unite two lands under the Divine and hope for the best.

Sebastian popped into her mind, with his shy smile and kind heart. Religious she had never been, and a chaste marriage under the Maker didn't appeal to her very much. Times were difficult, true, but she still dreamed of children and grandchildren. Selfishly, perhaps, when her own sister was in hiding. Still, her sister would have wanted some happiness to come from even a political marriage. When she met Alistair years ago, even emasculated by Meredith, he had been amiable, his awkwardness charming, but she'd never thought of him that way. That was why the proposal came as such a shock.

It probably shouldn't have, given how aware Hawke was of events happening in Kirkwall. She had her pirate looking out for trouble on the sea and Varric keeping track of nearly everything else. The letter, when it arrived, was such an unassuming object. She tore it open without thought, sitting at her desk with the afternoon sun warming the back of her neck. As she got to the bottom of the letter, she'd nearly dropped it in surprise.

Too well-worded to be from Alistair and too formal to be from good Bann Teagan, she knew immediately that the Arl had arranged the entire affair. She couldn't blame him. He was getting older, and the Court often said that Eamon cared for Alistair as a child. Surely he wanted see grandchildren since Connor was not ready yet to provide them, and Eamon was not getting any younger. Besides, Alistair was the king. Someone had to continue Maric's line.

Hawke pressed a manicured hand to her belly. To think she would carry a king's child was more than she could fathom. To think that she would be queen was beyond her comprehension. She'd never thought to marry a man she'd only just met, but duty called. Even if she had been disagreeable, the king had right to any maiden in the kingdom. He could take her by force, if it were truly necessary. But that was not his intention. He didn't want her because she was the fairest in the land—far from it, actually. He probably didn't want her at all. The entire affair was probably orchestrated by Eamon and Teagan, and Alistair was no doubt pacing in front of his own armoire, frowning in his mirror, debating his future just like her.

If not for the immense pressure to reproduce, Hawke might have been warmed by the idea of being courted by such a nice man. She'd always feared marrying someone who would try to control her—not that one ever could. Isabela had made marriage sound absolutely terrible, and Aveline fell back on it as the only stable aspect of her dangerous lifestyle. Marriage to Hawke—and it might have come from watching her loving parents for years—was supposed to be filled with kindness and affection. She wanted to have children tugging on her skirts the way her mother did while her husband kissed her cheek upon returning.

She was not, however, unaware of how unlikely that would be. Kissing would be a challenge. Consummating the marriage would probably be the most awkward moment of her life. Alistair didn't seem to be adept at handling social situations at all, let alone ones of that intimate a level. If she didn't know better, she might even think he had never had a relationship before. A blush painted her neck, and she started massaging her temples.

_Maker, __please __don__'__t __make __me __spend __my __wedding __night __instructing __a __virgin._

Between choosing the color of absolutely every piece and scrap of fabric to be present at the wedding and making sure the tailor was finished with her dress, Hawke had barely had time to breathe, let alone visit with her betrothed. From the short twenty minutes she spent with him, she'd gleaned a few facts, though. He had no head for the game, that was for sure. Formality didn't seem an issue with him at all. In fact, he'd regarded her with something like friendship almost immediately instead of the more appropriate suspicion. He seemed clean where most men were not. Handsome and strong of build, he was attractive at least. Age-wise, he was probably a little older than she was.

Part of her decision to accept did rest on the fact that she was getting on in years. At thirty years old, she was still a rather handsome woman. Her bones were fine, her muscles solid. She had a thin waist and wide hips. Didn't most men chase after women like that? She was hardly ugly. Money was no object. She was adventurous, sweet, and had claim to a high position. Yet she found her bed bereft of anyone save for a few faceless lovers when times were lonely. The nobles that did clamor for her hand were few and mostly spoiled brats that had no real interest.

To land a king, well, it was something at least. She'd always felt a fondness for Teagan. Arl Eamon she had never met, but she heard good things about his leadership and solid loyalty. After all, he was the noble standing for the Grey Wardens when the hero Mahariel was trying to raise an army. That had to say something for his character if not for his nerve. Thanks to him, Loghain was not in power. Anora was locked up in a madhouse somewhere. Alistair was on the throne. Hawke had not kept as close an eye as she probably should have on her old country, but Ferelden was doing well given the mage rebellion.

Selfish reasons did rear their heads, though. Besides wanting children and a kind husband, she also wanted an alliance with Ferelden. She was native to the country. It would always be her home, and having a tie to it meant the world to her. That she would get to spend even a few months at a time in her homeland would be worth whatever terrible ordeal the marriage ahead was. More than that, if Kirkwall and Ferelden united as one, the mages wouldn't have to scurry and hide so much. Alistair and Hawke could protect them more easily under a united banner than separate ones.

Young Bethany sprung to her mind, with her easy smile and delicate physique. After years in the Circle, Hawke had finally sneaked in under Cullen's nose and set her free. Where she was hiding, not even the Viscountess knew. Cullen suspected, but he would never bring such an accusation to head. Not after she saved him and the rest of the Order from Meredith. Perhaps some mages needed to be locked away never to see daylight or feel the rain on their faces, but Bethany did not deserve such a punishment. Even without her position to protect her, she would have done it anyway.

Thankfully her other companions would be at her side. Varric, called in from Guild meetings, had managed to hitch a ride on Isabela's ship to Ferelden just in time. Aveline would never have missed it, though she did have to give up a few responsibilities. Donnic was in tow. Sebastian was a guest of the court. Surprisingly, Fenris had also agreed to attend.

Unfortunately, not everyone was in the castle. Merrill was a mage and so was in hiding. Hawke didn't know where she was, only that she and Bethany were safe under the protection of Mahariel, a moving piece in the rebellion. Rumors indicated that the hero was supposed to attend, but who knew? She was known for missing important events. Zevran, the hero's assassin lover, was at her side, naturally. Leliana had been missing since the rebellion in Kirkwall. Oghren might have been around—Hawke had no idea what he even looked like. Of course, Sten had gone home to Par Vollen. Morrigan had been missing since the end of the Blight. Hawke knew no more of Mahariel's companions or their relationships with Alistair.

A tentative knock at the door startled her so severely she nearly toppled over in her chair. Patting down her hair, which had come slightly out of the bun, she checked herself in the mirror and said, "Come in."

"I—I, um, I can't," said a nervous voice on the other side, and she immediately recognized it as Alistair's. Hawke perked up considerably and went to the door, prepared to let him in. She pulled on the knob, but it wouldn't budge. He must have been holding it from the other side.

"Alist—I mean, your majesty," she fumbled, unsure how to address him, "I'm decent, I assure you."

_Not __that __that__'__ll __matter __in __a __few __hours, _she thought wryly.

"N-no, it's not that," he replied. "Bad luck and all."

"Oh."

"Yeah, I just," he paused for a breath, "I just wanted to talk. You know, before we did this."

Hawke smiled slightly to herself, feeling a sudden rush of tenderness for him. He was just as nervous as she was, just as unaware of what would come after. Pressing her delicate fingertips to the door, she said, "We could talk through the door. I mean…if you want."

He didn't answer straight away. "I'm not sure what to say," he confessed, and she laughed. "I noticed you sent your maids away. Did…um, did you not like them?"

"I just…prefer to get ready by myself. I wanted time to think." She smacked a hand over her mouth. That made it sound like she was doing this by force.

"Sorry about that. There were a lot of them, I felt. Eamon insisted that you would need help."

"Teagan probably thought so, as well, but you'll find I'm quite independent."

"So I've heard." He laughed suddenly, nervously. "I wish we didn't have to talk through a door."

"Me, too," she said a bit wistfully. "Are you ready?"

"Maker, no," he blurted out then quickly backtracked. "Not that I don't want to…it's just…I…You're….Maker's breath, I sound like a fool."

She wanted to put him at ease but wasn't sure how. "Your majesty?"

"Um, yes?"

"I'm glad we're doing this," she said to the door, staring at the wood with something akin to affection. "Even if…no matter what this means for us, as two people, it means the world to hundreds of others. And I'm…glad you chose me."

The silence that followed was tense. She wondered faintly if she had frightened him off and scolded herself. Fluffy confessions would not win his heart. However good-natured he seemed, it was a political marriage. Hawke had never been very good at speeches. Just as she was about to turn the handle and check if he was still there, his voice drifted from the other side. He sounded more relaxed.

"Thanks, and I'm…uh, glad I chose you, too."

She couldn't help the smile that came to her lips or the blush that colored her cheeks. She put a hand at her throat, feeling the heat gather at the hollow. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a terrible ordeal. If he could make her blush like a schoolgirl from behind a door at her age, perhaps they had already accomplished something. She sensed the potential for a great friendship if nothing else.

"Not that I don't like chatting with you," she said to the door, feeling quite flustered, "but the ceremony will be starting soon."

"Oh! Right! I'll, um, see you at the altar?"

It sounded like a question. "You will see me there."

"Okay…Hawke." He must have been wearing armor, because she heard the heavy metal as he walked away. When he finally left, she blew out a breath she hadn't known she was holding and slid back into her chair, trying to calm the ferocious tempo of her beating heart.

That he could quicken her so was good, wasn't it? She regarded herself in the mirror, taking in the pink tinge to her cheeks and throat. Her eyes were wide with excitement, dilated and framed by thick lashes. Anticipation sat in her stomach. She was glad they talked, and she hoped that he was comforted by it as well.

Not long after he had come to visit did the maids and servants she'd sent away before descend. They clicked their tongues at her hair, sharp fingers pinning it back up and dangling a stray tendril or two in front of her face. They wiped at the remaining swipe of rouge on her lips, and then Varric sauntered in dressed in his fine tunic, looking just as suave as ever.

"Ready, Beautiful?" he asked her.

"Oh, Maker, Varric, my stomach just dropped into my shoes," she groaned.

"Now, Hawke, you know you can do this. I've seen you fight down dragons, rip the horns of an ogre, and grapple with the Arishok. Marrying a king is cake in comparison, right?"

"Let's go find a high dragon, okay?" She started to collapse against the armoire, to press her powdered cheek against her arm in a gesture of total exhaustion, but one of the catty servants hissed and lifted her head up before she could. Hawke glared at the dark-skinned elf.

Varric burst out laughing. "All right, girls, she's got enough powder on her. She looks like she fell into a milk barrel." Without another word, he shooed all three of them out and shut the door. When he glanced back at her, he shook his head. "Look at them trying to hide all your natural beauty, the fools." He put a hand under her chin and used some water to wash her face. She allowed it.

"Are you sure you're all right with walking me down the aisle?" she asked a bit shyly.

He shrugged. "I agreed, and I'll do it. Unless you've changed your mind…"

"I just feel the fool," she admitted, staring into his honey eyes. "I wish Father was here to do it, and I feel as though I've insulted you. You're young, not even close to my father's age." Yet he had served as guardian of her since she was a reckless refugee hiding in Lowtown. Under his direction, she gathered enough coins to go on an expedition that changed her life. He was the one to hold her hand after the Arishok's death as she struggled with broken limbs. He told her stories to quell the pain. Something her father used to do when she was ill.

Varric was as much a watchful protector as her father ever had been, and in a moment of drunken sentiment, it had seemed such a perfect picture. Let the Viscountess be escorted down the aisle by a dwarf. _Eat __that, __you __rotten, __stuffy __nobles._

"Always the best man, never the groom," grumbled Varric playfully, turning her head toward the mirror. Hawke examined her face and nodded. She looked much better.

"Want to run for Orlais? We can be married by nightfall," she winked.

He grimaced. "If I ever get the inclination to marry a woman I consider to be my sister, you'll be the first to know, Beautiful. Now, let's go."

Events swept her away quite quickly, and she was suddenly glad she'd spent so much time moping in front of the mirror. She didn't have any time at the ceremony. The moment she was herded outside her room, a bouquet of white lilies shoved in her arms, veil drawn down, the music began to play. A harpsichord sang in soft soprano as she walked down the aisle of the coronation room. Isabela shot her a grin from the gathered crowd. Varric's hand was like a brand on her lower back, and she could feel herself sweat under the hot lights.

Though the wedding was taking place in the middle of a bright day in the spring, torches lined the hall. Gold and red tapestries with the royal seal hung from the balconies packed full with sniffling and gossiping nobles. Flowers were placed in fine-woven baskets. Ribbons streamed from the rafters. The entire room smelled wonderful, fresh air and cinnamon and candle wax. Ahead of her, in gleaming golden armor that reminded her too much of dear King Cailan at the battle of Ostagar, stood her future husband. On a pillow just beside the chantry mother that would pronounce them husband and wife was a sparkling crown engraved with the same royal crest. Hawke's heart nearly skipped a beat.

Varric's fingers tightened against her spine, pressing her forward.

At the altar, Alistair lifted her veil from her face and tried to hide his shock. He had never seen her outside her armor or probably with any vestige of makeup on her face at all. Whether he thought her beautiful or atrocious, she had no time to ponder. The mother was announcing to all the gathered men and women what was to take place. Hawke could scarcely control the shaking in her hands as she watched Varric's retreating form.

_Oh, __Maker, __don__'__t __leave __me __up __here __by __myself._

She finally tore her gaze away and stared into Alistair's eyes, deep brown. Reprimanding herself didn't help. She spent so much time trying not to flee the dais that she tilted her head curiously when Alistair offered to put the ring on her finger. When he held her hand, she reveled in the rough callouses. A warrior like herself. He was watching the mother, though, not her.

Finally it was done, and she leaned in to kiss an unskilled mouth. The kiss was chaste—as chaste as humanly possible, a quick peck on the corner of her mouth—and the mother lifted their hands up in celebration. Hawke thought she would burst into hysterics as the crowd erupted into a shouting mass of excited guests. Ribbons were tossed into the air. Cut paper and confetti flew at them, thrown by children. The mother reached for the small crown and fixed it firmly atop Hawke's head—only a formality, the coronation would come much later. Hawke looked to her husband who was smiling almost sheepishly at the crowd.

Isabela was whooping with joy, a bottle in her hand. Varric was laughing and clapping loudly. Aveline nodded respectfully, mouth fixed in a thin line. Donnic smiled, his arm around his wife's waist. Fenris was a wraith in the crowd, barely visible. Sebastian gave a sweeping bow.

At least her companions were happy for her.

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><p>The banquet was much kinder to her nerves. Between congratulations from her friends and the various nobles already pledging allegiance though she wasn't even queen yet, she didn't have time to fret about what the wedding night would bring. During dinner, she sat at Alistair's right hand, Eamon on the left. They spoke niceties and talked politics: who would replace Arl Kramier, how the wheat yield had faired, the gruesome murder in Denerim a few weeks ago, rumblings of trouble with Orlais. She tried to pay as much attention as possible, but the topics bored her.<p>

What she wanted, more than anything, was a good pair of riding chaps, a bow to sling across her back, a horse, and a target to aim at. Her dress breathed, but it was confining. She envied the men with their tunics and simple breeches. How clueless they were of their good fortune. Twice she nearly stumbled in her unfortunate shoes. The first was descending from the dais, so dazed by how quickly the entire marriage was over that she nearly fell. If not for Alistair's steadying grip on her hand, she would have hit the floor.

The second was during the first dance. Alistair had rights, of course, though Bann Teagan dropped several hints that he wanted a turn as well. She made it to the dance floor well enough, his hand on her waist, her naked arms around his neck. She was careful with the gold bangles on her wrist, not wanting to catch them in his hair or press the cold metal to his skin. In fact, she was very careful not to make him nervous in any way as they twirled pleasantly in endless circles.

"You're a fine dancer," she complimented him with some surprise. "I didn't expect as much."

He perked up. "I took lessons when I was crowned. And you?"

"Oh, I learned recently. From refugee to Viscountess means quick lessons. I suspect I'm terrible, but I can learn later, I suppose."

"No, no!" he said as he twirled her in a half-circle. "I don't dance a lot, but you're…pretty good, actually."

She smiled at him, sliding her hand down from his shoulder to his chest. Just as his mouth turned up at the corner, Isabela crashed into her from behind, and she fell into his arms with a sharp huff of breath. If not for her heels, she might have caught herself. Cold metal pressed against her cheek, and she whipped around at the familiar giggle with fire burning in her eyes. "Look at the pretty couple making puppy eyes at each other, Sebastian," she said to the prince.

"I think you've made her angry," he noted in reply, though the possibility didn't spoil his Cheshire grin at all.

Hawke disentangled herself from Alistair's arms and frowned ferociously at Isabela, arms crossed. "Rivaini, I suggest you _sod __off_ right now before I strangle you." A few nobles dancing around them glanced sharply at the new queen. Hawke knew she was making a scene. She didn't care. What Alistair and her needed was peace, time to talk, not foul tricks and skullduggery from intrusive rogues.

"Right, right," the pirate rolled her eyes, taking Sebastian's hand and dancing away. When she turned around, Alistair was holding out her crown. When had it fallen off her head?

She replaced it hastily and held out her hand. "Sorry."

"Hey, I get it."

"Arranged marriages, right?" she rolled her eyes, falling back into the dance gracefully.

He laughed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I _know_. Crazy, isn't it?"

"Well, Isabela's been trying to drag Sebastian into bed for Maker knows how long. Maybe he'll keep her busy for the rest of the night."

"We can only hope."

Throughout the procession, Hawke was passed around like an Antivan whore. For hours she danced until her feet were sore, her ankles swollen from the weight of the heels. When she finally sat down to rub at the painful limbs, the day was breaking into night. Guards opened the doors and let in the cool air, sweetened by green grass and dew on the wind. Hawke left the heat of the court behind and breathed deep the fresh air, glad to be away from the perfume and oily food.

She stared up at the night sky almost pleadingly, as if asking it to swallow her up. Though she was glad the party was winding down, it meant she would have to spend the night with Alistair. Alone. Some nights, when she was desperate and lonely, she took strangers to her bed. They were of her guard or hardened mercenaries who would blindfold her and take her without speaking. That was what she liked when there was no affection involved.

_Don__' __t__shower __me __with __kisses, __stranger, __simply __finish __it __and __leave __me __to __my __regrets._

Often it was like that. The men were gone in the morning, or she was. She'd bathe to rid herself of the smell of shame yet secretly relish the ache between her legs as she sat down to write her letters and sign her papers. She was a busy woman with no time for romance. Once she thought it'd sparked between her and Anders…but she was glad it hadn't. His death was an unfortunate weight on her mind. If they had been in a relationship, Maker help her, the decision would have been even harder. It was damn near impossible from the beginning.

Sweat made her dress cling in all the wrong places, and she was beginning to feel quite uncomfortable and rather tired. If it was at all possible, she wanted to skip consummating their marriage and go straight to sleep. Hawke hadn't been held by a man in bed for a long time, and she wouldn't mind feeling Alistair's strong arms wrapped around her, intentions pure.

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><p><strong>Interested? If no one is, I'll simply delete it. I have enough projects to deal with currently, but I just keep starting new ones. Thanks for reading. Review please.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: It's Almost Easy**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair**

**A/N: Thanks for Reading**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 2<span>

Hawke reached up and unpinned her hair, feeling the silken strands spill down her back. If there was one advantage to staying in the castle, it was the Antivan oils that made her skin smooth and her hair shine. She combed her fingers through the strands, mindful of the glittering ring on her finger. The jewelry was light, a simple band encrusted with a few small diamonds. She had specifically asked for a small ring—something she could wear to show her marital status but not anything clunky that would throw off her sword hand. Eamon had delivered.

Below, in the courtyard, a fountain bubbled softly, filled to the brim with lovely and decorative flowers. No one would even be in the courtyard that evening, and she wondered faintly if the servants had redecorated the entire castle on behalf of the wedding. She'd never seen the inside before. Perhaps even her room had been spruced up for the occasion.

Hawke was not used to such excess. Even as Viscountess, she lived on necessities, not luxuries. Precious silk and taffeta robes were exchanged for simple cotton. Her bed was not lavish, and most of the time she slept on a cot in the back room of her office. Why not? She had no one to go home to. Her companions were busy. Bodahn and his son had long ago left. Hawke had no desire to fill her life with meaningless accessories. Objects couldn't replace her mother or her sister. Jewelry wouldn't bring her father or Carver back. Nothing could. Things didn't hold value to her, people did. So why live on more when so many others went without?

Inside, she could feel the heat coming off the lanterns and torches. Laughter like bells drifted from the hall. The scent of salted meats and wine reminded her of the dining area in her Keep. Hawke tightened her hand around the cement railing, watching her hand flex with the ring on her finger. It shone in the light from the sunset.

"Hawke," called a voice from behind, and she tilted her head with a gentle smile to see Alistair standing in the balcony entrance.

"Your majesty?"

"No, please," he rubbed at the back of his neck, "call me Alistair. There's…I mean, we're _married_ now. You should be able to call me that."

For a moment, she considered asking him to extend the same courtesy and refer to her as 'Marian'. After all, that was her first name. Yet over the years, Marian had disappeared into the background. She had become Hawke—the mercenary, the slayer of dragons, Meredith's killer, savior of mages, and the Viscountess of Kirkwall. Marian was a young girl with blonde curls who believed in griffons and liked to sleep against her father's chest. Marian was the refugee that survived despite the odds. Hawke was the one that built a future out of that uncertainty.

She was her namesake, her father's daughter, the wife of a king—a Hawke, not an Amell and not a little girl who answered to Marian.

Varric didn't tell stories about Marian.

"Okay," she smiled instead. When he lingered in the doorway, she crooked a finger, beckoning. "Why not join me out here? I'd like the chance to talk without Eamon peering over my shoulder."

"Isn't that the truth," he sighed, coming to stand at her side. Up close, she could see he was suffering under the hot lights as well. The tips of his messy hair stuck to his skin with sweat. For a moment, she stood admiring him. No, he was not ugly at all. His skin was smooth and blemish-free. Stubble roughened the hard angle of his jaw, almost auburn in color. His hair was blond like Cailan's. Hawke had only caught sight of the king a few times before his demise at Ostagar, but they were very similar in looks from what she could remember.

He caught her gaze and ducked his head. "What, do I have something on my face?"

"No, I just…I'm distracted. Ignore me." Curling her fingers on the balcony, she turned away.

"It's awkward, isn't it?" he said suddenly. "Being married at all is…well, weird. Sorry. But being married to a stranger? I never thought it would be like this."

_If __you __think __it__'__s __awkward __now, _she began but quickly snuffed out the entire train of thought.

"I had a good idea. I knew this was a political marriage, and I accepted it," she glanced demurely at him, watching his facial expressions. "When I was a little girl, I wanted to marry a great knight, a gentleman. I was always afraid that I would end up with a man who would be cruel. But a king trained to be a Templar? You can't be too terrible."

She was teasing, and he caught on. "Oh, I am. Trust me. I kick puppies. I steal candles from the chantry."

"You fiend."

"I know," he sniffed dramatically, putting a hand to his heart. "I'm an awful man."

"Now," she chided softly, too seriously, forcing herself to stare at the oasis below them, "I'm sure that's not true." And she was. When it came to men, she was especially suspicious of their motives. Years of being a desperate refugee had taught her that when it came to desire and want, even the best became beasts. Bethany had been the target of quite a few men who wanted to take what they thought was theirs. Alistair, however, didn't seem to fit that preconception. He didn't seem to fit any of hers.

Weren't kings supposed to be arrogant and loud? Alistair looked like he'd tremble on the battlefield, at the very prospect of fighting, though they did say he and Mahariel defeated the archdemon together. Surely he didn't just cheer from the sidelines. As for being loud, even on his best day, she doubted he could shout over the nobles in the hall to get their attention. Of course, she didn't know him very well. Maybe he was just quiet around her. She wasn't exactly showing her full potential either.

The Viscountess of Kirkwall was pushy and stubborn when she wanted something. She had very little patience for strangers and was naturally cynical. Kindness did rear its head on occasion, a nearly motherly instinct popping out to comfort. Coercion was her specialty. What she wanted, she got. Whether it came from charm, threatening, or compromise depended on the person. Deep inside, she was a terrible romantic and read Varric's cliché novels at night with the lantern burning low. She was also incredibly practical when it came to sex. Wherever, whenever, and with whomever as long as it was rough and pleasurable.

She sighed and sized up her husband again. He was staring down just as she had been. From what she could gather, he was most likely a gentle lover—something that would grate on her nerves rather quickly. She liked to bite and scratch. It was in her nature. Sex was good when it was reminiscent of battle. Gasp, bruise, claw, bite, blood pumping, hands shaking, feel the adrenaline, feel the rush.

"Listen," she said, leaning her elbow against the balcony railing, "I want to know something."

"Okay," he took a deep breath.

"What are you expecting? Is this…a marriage of friendship? Or is it more? I know you're supposed to have children, but you can do that just as easily with a mistress as you can with me," she bowed her head. How embarrassing that would be. "I understand the need to unite our lands, to save the mages. We can be friends. What I'm asking is do you want more?"

He ducked his head. "I'm not sure."

Nodding, she relaxed a little. She could appreciate his honesty. "Then let me be straight-forward," she stepped a little closer and put a hand on his shoulder, "I want more. Not now, maybe not for a long time. I don't want to spend my life in a loveless marriage, though."

"You're exactly like they said you were."

She blinked. "Pardon me?"

Alistair was smiling shyly. "I asked about you, you know. Well, Eamon asked really. Mahariel spied on you for a little while. She doesn't talk much. So when I asked all she would give me was that you were 'unyielding'. Strong as ironbark. Whatever that means."

Ironbark was the material her bow was made out of, crafted by master Ilen himself in exchange for clearing out one of the caves nearby of darkspawn. It was hard, unbreakable. To be compared to something so absolute by a Dalish woman—someone who probably had no respect for humans at all—was an honor. She let her fingers fall from his shoulder.

"I don't want a mistress," he confessed, staring at the sky. "I'll be faithful to my wife. To you. I don't want to be like Cailan."

The man to who glory meant everything? He whom abandoned his duty for a battle he need not have attended? He whom became a stranger to his wife? Comparable to the man whom rose from nothing, a bastard no one wanted, to become king of Ferelden? Comparable to the man who defeated the Blight with only a ragtag group and Mahariel? She chuckled lightly at the absurdity. His gloved hand was sitting on the banister. Feeling bold, she pressed her deft fingers over his. "From what I've seen, you're _nothing_ like him."

* * *

><p>The party broke apart just after night fell, guests giving their congratulations and farewells. Hawke put another smile on her face and endured for the cause, but her heart was tripping in her chest. When everyone left, it meant that they would be alone. The two of them were supposed to consummate the marriage. It wasn't a real marriage under the Maker otherwise, and she saw the mischievous twinkle in the revered mother's eyes as they shook hands.<p>

Isabela stole a quick kiss on the mouth and held Hawke by the shoulders, whispering in her ear, "I want every last detail, okay?" With a giggle she fluttered away, yanking Sebastian after her who only offered a quick farewell.

Varric kissed her hand. Aveline swept her into a powerful hug that crushed her ribs. "How does it feel?" she asked.

"A bit like the battle at Ostagar," Hawke admitted tightly, mindful of how close Alistair was. "I'm shaking, I think I might be ill, and I have no idea if I'm going to survive." Aveline whacked her on the shoulder, but there was a gentle understanding in her eyes. The guard captain was once the uncertain soldier in love. A firm hand gripped her fingers.

"Your choice," she nodded and kissed Hawke's cheek. Donnic nodded as he passed by, and Hawke watched them go with a heavy heart. When Fenris inclined his head, she threw her arms around him and held him tight. The spiky protrusions of his armor bit into her belly and chest, but she didn't care. Tentatively, he patted her on the back.

"Maker, I wish you didn't have to go," she whispered against his cheek, holding on for dear life. If anyone had been a close friend to her over the years, it had been Fenris. They'd laughed, cried, and fought together. They'd drank themselves silly during countless nights at the Hanged Man. He'd watched her hold the lifeless body of her mother, and she'd seen him slay his own sister in vengeance. So much history bound them together. When she decided to protect the mages, he'd betrayed his own philosophies to help.

Over the years he'd become her confidant, much like Varric. He was her bodyguard and her best friend. To see him go finally was more than she could take, and she felt the hot tears well up in her eyes even if it was only for a few short months.

"We will see each other again, Hawke," he answered with some surprise, the deep gravel of his voice reverberating in her chest.

"I know," she sniffed, pulling back to smile brilliantly at him. Her heart ached. "Forgive a silly Ferelden wife's sentiments. I'm a terrible mess today."

The serious expression on his face didn't fade. He reached up and wiped a tear away with his thumb, eyes smoldering with emotion. "I will stay if you want."

"I can't ask that of you," she shook her head, mildly alarmed that he had offered. Fenris had been against the marriage to begin with but not even his passionate arguments could change her path. Finally he showed a resigned acceptance. That he had shown up for the ceremony at all was a shock. "I know you're uncomfortable here."

"Uncomfortable?" he laughed a bit darkly. "With all these sneering nobles holding themselves above me? I'm not put off at all. In fact, Hawke, it feels like home. But it's a good feeling. Danarius and Hadriana are dead, and I am a free man. I have you to thank for that." His hands were cold as they held hers, small and elven yet so strong. "There is no place I would rather be than at your side."

She bit her lip. Guilt welled up, heady and painful. That she would inconvenience him in such a way because of her insecurities was cruel. He held no debt to her, though he claimed otherwise and probably would for all eternity. The thought was tempting, however. So compelling that she found herself saying, "I suppose you could stay as a guest, but do you really want to indulge my cowardice?"

"Every queen needs a bodyguard, does she not?" he smiled briefly and drew away, their moment of intimacy gone as quickly as it had come. Teagan approached and kissed her cheek, his easy familiarity always a comfort to her.

"Congratulations are in order, right?" he grinned, sparing only a respectful glance at Fenris. "Why do you look so somber, my queen?"

She shrugged, embarrassed that she had let it show. "I'm just tired."

"Understandable," he said. "You've had a stressful night. And where is your despicable husband?" Teagan stood on his toes and scanned the crowd.

At some point during her embrace with Fenris, the king had drifted away. She shrugged. "Perhaps he's run away. I wouldn't blame him."

Teagan laughed. "Are you kidding? My lady, you should be the one running. You're too good for him, you know."

Hawke clasped a hand on his shoulder. "Don't flatter me so, Teagan. I might ask you to whisk me away."

"Gladly, my dear."

A great clamor erupted behind them, and they both turned to see the cause. The crowd split into two halves, quickly maneuvering away from the center of the room as if something was fast approaching. Applause rang in the high hallway. A cool night wind swept into the room from the open wooden doors, and Hawke felt Teagan pulling her out of the way. She saw what had interrupted the festivities so and what had the nobles so delighted.

The Hero marched along the red carpet rolled across the middle of the chamber, dressed in heavy silverite armor that glittered with charms. Mud was splattered in her hair and across her cheek. Dried blood dotted her gauntlets, and she kept one gloved hand on the sword at her side. Beside her walked a man with almost feline grace, his dark skin startling among all the pale-faced guests. A strange marking on his cheek seemed to move in the firelight. From the many ballads of their adventures Hawke had heard from the bards, she concluded that it must have been Zevran walking so proudly after the Hero.

Mahariel stopped just before Alistair, whose stunning golden armor was difficult to miss once everyone had moved out of the way. She gave a short bow and then stood up, spine rigid. The applause died away. "Apologies for missing the ceremony, my king," she said so evenly it was nearly monotone. After a tense moment, she broke out into a smile that transformed her stern face. "I can't believe you're married, you big idiot." She rushed forward and embraced him heartily.

The cheers were deafening.

Even Teagan was clapping, and Hawke found herself smiling as well. Still, the presence of the Hero didn't bode well. She wondered immediately where Merrill and Bethany were. If their guardian was at the castle, who was watching them? Were the hidden away in some filthy sewer, fearing the Templars? What had happened? Her heart was fit to beat out of her chest.

Then Teagan was pushing her, and she nearly tripped in her ridiculous shoes. His hands steadied her, and she stood nearby while Mahariel and Alistair spoke excitedly, Zevran listening with a tilt of his head. Finally Alistair noticed Hawke and blushed. "Oh, uh, Mahariel, this is my, um, my wife. I guess." He gestured vaguely to her, and Hawke bowed her head.

"Pleasure to meet you, Hero."

Zevran slinked closer. "You guess?" he asked in a thick Antivan accent, and Hawke found that she rather liked the way his tongue caressed the words. The very sound sent a thrill through her. "Why, she is a beauty, Alistair! How dare you hesitate to lay claim to such a lovely creature. It is an abomination!"

Alistair spluttered.

"Zev, knock it off," Mahariel snapped. "He's nervous enough as it is."

"Beautiful women deserve to be complimented, my dear," he defended but fell silent.

"That's not what I meant," Alistair fumed.

Frowning, the Hero thrust out a hand. Hawke took it gladly. Her grip was strong, fingers calloused. "Champion," she nodded, "it's good to have you on our side. Some part of me thought this might never happen."

"This Alliance is critical," Hawke agreed. "I'm happy to be a part of it."

"Hopefully the rest of the Free Marches will follow your example and join the cause," she said. "I suspect there's no going back now. The Divine will have us all beheaded if we waver."

"What was it she said just recently?" Zevran mused. "That you were 'a crime against the Maker?'"

Mahariel's frown deepened. "Zev's been in Val Royeaux for the last few weeks. He makes a decent spy when he's not out whoring and drinking."

"Zevran ignoring his duties?" Alistair piped up. "Shock and awe."

"You both wound me deeply," the assassin placed a hand over his heart. He glanced at Hawke. "I hope that your respective half treats you better than this, my friend. Such abuse can break even the strongest of us."

"Please," Mahariel snorted. "You know it's true, and you revel in the fact that I care enough to lecture you. Now go off and fetch the queen's present. You know where."

He sighed dramatically. "Do you see how she orders me about, King Alistair? These are the chains of a relationship. I cannot imagine the horror of being married." With a small salute, he sauntered off as casually as possible, disappearing seamlessly into the crowd.

"You need not have gotten me a present," Hawke said immediately after he departed.

"It was Alistair's idea," Mahariel admitted. "Ferelden custom dictates that the husband must have a present for the wife on the wedding night. He needed my help to arrange it. Understandably."

Alistair rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, Zevran helped me think of it. He's a bit of a romantic even if he does pretend like every moment he spends in Mahariel's presence is like a death sentence."

"That's because it _is _a death sentence," the Hero mumbled. Then she glanced up, and her eyes came alive. "Teagan! You old bastard!"

Teagan hugged her hard, lifting her off the ground. "Maker, girl, I thought you'd miss the party."

"Problems in the Underground. Too many mages, not enough food—"

Whatever they said was lost to her, because Alistair suddenly nudged her with his elbow. When she opened her mouth to ask why he had done it, the look in his eyes caught her. He jerked his head in the direction of one of the branching hallways. Fingers grasped her upper arm, and she was lead away from the engaged Mahariel and Teagan, worry about the problems boiling in their nation replaced by simple curiosity. She ignored the intrigued women winking at her and giggling behind their hands as he guided her. Since her rise to Viscountess, she'd been subject to such gossip. There were so many rumors. Fenris was her lover. Varric was her half-brother. She often slept with the captain of the guard. Hawke was a mage herself. All of them were silly and completely false; she had long ago grown immune to court presumptions.

They seemed to follow the corridor forever. Hawke focused on his gentle breathing, the sure but unassuming grip on her arm. He smelled nice, she decided, like metal and spice. As the winding halls seemed to end, they came upon the very courtyard she'd been staring down at earlier. The balcony was visible from the door, but Alistair pulled her into shadows.

Zevran's golden eyes glimmered as he glanced up, but Hawke was staring at the slim, cloaked figure beside him. Her heart nearly burst with excitement. "Bethany?" she demanded, breathless. The person lunged toward her, and she had an armful of soft flesh and silken, black hair.

"Sister!" she cried, squeezing Hawke so tightly that it _hurt. _But it was a good feeling to see her again, to hold her baby sister. Tears welled in her eyes for a moment, and she beat them back. Too early for Alistair to see her cry. Wrong for her to be so sentimental at a formal occasion, yet she couldn't help it. She buried her face into Bethany's neck and breathed deep the scent of incense and lilacs. Buzzing magic lapped at her skin in waves, friendly and familiar. So long since she'd been around a mage.

"Maker, Bethany," she said, shakily pulling away. "What are you doing here? This isn't safe!"

"Hush with all that, Sister," Bethany replied. She was gaunt and pale, exhaustion rimming her pretty eyes. "I couldn't miss your wedding, now could I?" Hawke could feel the pointed bones of her hips pressing into her own as she enveloped her into another tight embrace.

"You didn't need to come," she whispered. "Oh, it's so good to see you, but you shouldn't have come."

"Zevran offered me safe passage," Bethany explained. "He's a skilled fighter, and he knows how to blend in. Even if he does get a bit distracted at times."

Zevran shrugged from the shadows, but there was a grin on his face. He was leaning casually against the stone walls, arms crossed as he watched the entrance to the courtyard. Hawke wondered how such a man—who obviously had a carefree spirit that sought after pleasure—had captured the heart of the Hero, known to be a stern woman. Bethany touched her hair, pulling back to stare at her dress. Hawke felt silly suddenly; even her sister didn't see her often in such elegant dressing.

"You look so beautiful," Bethany breathed. "I can't imagine the ceremony. It must have been wonderful. I wish I could have been there for it."

"There will be more to come, Bethany," said Alistair, and Hawke startled. She had forgotten he was even there. "Hawke and I will fix this. You'll be out of hiding soon." His eyes shone with determination, and there was something hard in his voice. Conviction. It made her shiver.

"Oh, I can't imagine how lovely a day that will be," she confessed with a weary smile, her arm around Hawke's waist. "I'm so tired, your majesty. So very tired."

"I think…I think we all are," he said.

"This will come to a head soon enough," Hawke murmured. "With this Alliance, that's more for the mages' cause than against."

War had been raging since Anders's assault on the chantry years ago. Templars had become vicious beasts—save for Cullen's order in Kirkwall which took its orders from Hawke and the ones under Alistair's rule. They raped and murdered mages left and right, in all lands opposing basic freedoms for the mages. At least no one was made Tranquil anymore. Anders had succeeded in that.

Orlais was ruled by the Divine and all mage-haters. Starkhaven was allied with Hawke because of her friendship with Sebastian and his reluctant belief that no man should be suppressed for simply being born. Mahariel was Arlessa of Amaranthine and so her lands were with them, as well. Antiva was completely neutral, though not for long.

Ferelden was a promised land. The Circle remained intact only because of Alistair's flawless leadership and the Hero's uncompromising demeanor. Tevinter was ruled by mages, their order of Templars a joke. They offered safety to those mages who would flee there, but Mahariel vehemently encouraged mages not to go. Hawke and Fenris had rescued quite a few would-be slaves from running to Tevinter for asylum.

Bethany cast a glance toward the balcony. Music drifted out into the black sky. "Excuse us for a moment, your majesty," she said, gripping Hawke's arm and leading out of his hearing range. Zevran watched them before striking up a conversation with Alistair, potentially trying to keep him from eavesdropping.

Hawke pushed back her sister's hood and saw the cropped state of her hair. "Oh, Bethany, why did you cut your hair?"

"It's easier to take care of, and it doesn't look so filthy. That's not important now," she dismissed, taking Hawke's hand. "Tell me, Sister, are you happy?"

Hawke frowned in confusion. "With Alistair? I've hardly known him for more than one night. I can't answer that truthfully."

"No, with this…entire arrangement. Are you…you wanted this, right?"

"Bethany, no one could make me marry someone I didn't want to. Not even Arl Eamon. And Alistair isn't forcing me to marry him. Eamon made the proposal; I accepted. I don't know what Mahariel told you, but that's how it was."

"No, I know," she said. "Varric said something similar. I just didn't know…this seems so unlike you. You've never…you said you'd never get married."

Hawke swiped at some hair. "I didn't think I ever would."

"He seems a good man, if a little naïve," Bethany nodded.

"Yeah," Hawke agreed. "I think he is. I have…high hopes. For the first time in a long time, the future is not so bleak." The words rang true in her heart as she said them, and she cast a glance at her husband standing in the moonlight. He was gesturing as though telling a story, making a wide arch with his arm.

"This was his idea," Bethany told her. "Bringing me here…it's your wedding gift, Sister."

"This?" Hawke blinked in surprise, and a wave of sentiment caught her unaware.

_What a kind man, _she thought fondly, watching the king smile at Zevran. She remembered all of the letters she'd sent to Teagan, pouring her heart out about how torn up she was that she hadn't seen Bethany in so long. Had he been in on the arrangement? Had Varric helped as well?

She drew her sister in for another hug, feeling the quick beat of Bethany's heart against her skin. So reassuring that she was alive. So wonderful to see her again. "It's the best present I've ever received."

Bethany rubbed circles along her back, and Hawke thought she felt the wetness of tears on her sister's cheek. "Do you think you can be happy with him, Sister?"

Hawke thought about it for a long time. The sparse thread at her fingertips wasn't enough to keep Bethany warm in the cold to come, the cloak too old to belong to her. She paid attention to the strange spikey hair against her jaw, not normally associated with her sister whose hair fell in luscious curls. She felt the pressure of a loved one holding on for dear life, not wanting to be separated. Bethany's tears smeared against her collarbone.

Alistair's voice was warm in the background, and it reminded her of the reassurance in her father's voice when she was a child. His smile was radiant, and it caused a flutter of nerves in her belly. The old romance with Anders came to mind, a burnt and dead thing that she tried to keep from analyzing. She realized how alike the two were, warriors fighting passionately for a cause. Going against the grain. The underdogs. Fighting against the Divine and advocating for mages—a people who had no one to advocate for them.

Yet Alistair wasn't completely doomed. He wasn't a mage. It was the very distinct possibility of Anders's death that had kept her at bay. Her own self-preservation had pushed her away from him, forced her to deny her feelings. He was too righteous, too out of her reach. But Alistair was king. The only way he could meet a sticky end would be if someone managed to penetrate the wall of guards around him, get past a woman who had defeated the archdemon, a penitent Crow, a dwarf warlord, and her own sordid pack of thieves. As for being out of her reach, she was married to him, wasn't she?

The dream of having children tug on her skirts while she greeted a loving husband just home from the war did not seem so distant suddenly. She held on ever tighter to Bethany out of fear and pure exhilaration. Hadn't Alistair left the door for love open? Wasn't the possibility of more an ever-threatening realization in every political marriage? Who said she needed to die an old maid, an unloved soldier?

"Yes," Hawke answered Bethany's question, drawing back to take in her emaciated countenance. "I think…I think I can."

* * *

><p><strong>Catch any mistakes? Let me know. If you continue reading and reviewing, I'll update when I can. Thanks for reading. Review please.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: It's Almost Easy**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair**

**A/N: Thanks for Reading**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 3<span>

The departure was painful, but Hawke steeled herself as she said goodbye to her baby sister yet again. How terrible to be so helpless, to watch Bethany go back to a life of desperation and filth when she stood in an expensive gown with silver pins in her hair. Alistair was at Hawke's side as Zevran led her away, the elf robust in comparison to the walking wraith Bethany had become. She had always been so vibrant and full of life, soft as a woman should be with rosy cheeks and a healthy complexion. To see her pale and emaciated was heartbreaking. To watch her walk away was more than Hawke could take.

She breathe deep the warm air of the castle as they entered, eyeing the luxurious fabric curtains with a newfound distaste. Who was she to wallow like a pig in wealth when so many starved? She hadn't felt such a burning hatred toward Anders for years, but it came back stronger than ever. Her sharp fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her arms as she walked.

"We'll be able to save them, you know," he said suddenly, and she glanced at him sharply.

"You are more optimistic than I am," she sighed. "I think sometimes that our cause is hopeless. It feels wrong; all this feels wrong. I should be out there fighting with them. Mahariel is leading them, but…well, I should be."

He frowned. "From what I hear, you fought for them for years. Painted up and leading mages out of the Gallows with that apostate Warden at your heels. The stories are legendary."

"Would that I had continued," she said. Memories flooded her mind. Anders had held her hand, the hard calluses on his fingers scraping hers as they stumbled through the muck and mud of human waste. Young men and women had feared for their lives, shivering wet and cold as they followed. They had put their entire trust into two strangers, two strangers more than capable of robbing them and leaving them for dead. "I feel so useless now."

"But you're taking action again," he pressed, eyes burning with conviction. "Hawke, we married today so that we could stop this. This union will be paramount when the Divine declares war. She's so close this might be the very thing to push her over the edge."

Hawke felt like the Viscountess again, marching at the king's side and speaking of war and politics. Alistair was roughly the same height as Seneschal Bran when she thought about it. A part of her missed the impossibly high ceiling of her Keep, the rustle of papers on her desk, and the smell of parchment and ink. In recent years, politics had become her life. It was strange to focus on anything else, even a marriage ceremony.

"Let's hope she's pushed far enough to fall," Hawke said to him. "I tire of dancing around this. A real war would be better than this stalemate."

"I'm not so sure about that," he answered uneasily. "If we can make her free the mages rather than fight a war she will declare is against the Maker Himself, I would prefer it."

"Everyone would prefer that," she snapped. What a silly dream. "Fighting a war is what I've been planning for years. I won't settle for less."

"Hawke," he said with worry, "if we can settle, shouldn't we? How many lives have already been lost?"

Anger built up inside of her. Once upon a time, she'd said the same selfish thing to Anders. She cut Alistair off, planting herself in front of him so that he halted. Her slender fingers rested on his chest, the shine of her ring only matched by his golden armor. "No, Alistair. Lives are lost every day. I will compromise with you on anything, anything, but not this. This is a war we will fight. No treaties. No salves to cover the wound. Mages have been punished for being born for the last thousand years. I will not yield now. Not when we're so close to freedom. Not when I've promised so many."

"I've made promises, too," he said. "What I don't want is to lose the people I care about."

"That is the risk we must take."

Did he think she wanted to risk losing Bethany? Aveline? Fenris? Varric? Isabela? Merrill? No, she'd already lost Anders—the greatest of her friends no matter how much he pushed her to do more, work harder. She didn't want anyone to die, but a war had cost. Anders's sacrifice wouldn't be meaningless. She wouldn't stand for it.

A loud shout broke them apart. Hawke jumped as though she'd just been caught doing something wrong. Teagan stood at the end of the hall, and he was grinning. "Come on, lovebirds. The party's over, and it's tradition for the groom's father—mainly Eamon—to see the couple up to the marriage suite."

"Uh, that's not necessary," Alistair protested at once.

Oh, Maker, where did the evening go? thought Hawke in despair.

Teagan approached and took Hawke by the arm. "Come now, this is the longest marriage ceremony I've ever been to. You two will be fine; you'll have to be alone together eventually."

"We were alone just now," she frowned at him, slightly nettled that he was getting so much enjoyment at her expense. "You interrupted us."

"Technicalities," he declared as he tugged her along, and Alistair followed a little reluctantly. "Now, my future queen, your elven friend has refused to budge from the doorstep, so Eamon offered him a room on the second floor just by the stairs. Your room is on the third. He is well within hearing distance should you shout for help."

The thought that Fenris might be nearby assuaged her age-old paranoia, but she didn't relish the fact that he might be able to burst in at the slightest squeak she made. As they approached the stairway, she saw him standing in his battle armor with his hefty sword strapped to his back. He appeared nonplussed, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The picture was a familiar one. For years he'd stood inside her office with the same expression, a faint glare ready to make itself known at any moment.

She slid away from Teagan and tucked a stray hair behind his ear. The buried hostility in his eyes turned to warmth as he regarded her. "I will be here, Hawke, should you need me."

"Aren't you always?" she said with affection, kissing his cheek before ascending the stairs. Her shoes did not make it easy, and she nearly fell twice before Alistair secured a hand around her bicep and helped her. At the top of the stairs, Eamon stood, much older for all the strain war had put on him.

He smiled, though, when they appeared. The simple action took twenty years from his face, transforming a greying old man into a middle-aged ruler. He extended a hand, and Hawke placed curled her fingers in it, reveling at the way his beard tickled as he bent to kiss her knuckles. "Lady Theirin," he greeted, his voice resonating in the hallway. "What a wonder to finally address a woman as such."

Hawke started, completely taken off guard. It had not occurred to her that her last name was no longer Hawke. Since the beginning of the evening, actually, she had been Marian Theirin, wife of Alistair Theirin. Queen Theirin. Queen Marian. No longer Hawke. No longer the mercenary.

"Please," she cleared her throat, attempting to recover. "Eamon, you may call me Hawke. We shouldn't stand on such formality."

"But you are no longer a Hawke, my lady," he argued lightly. "You are a Theirin and should be treated with all the respect that name garners."

"Eamon, she's a Hawke," Alistair said. "She's Malcolm Hawke's daughter. Somehow her last name became her first, and it's what she prefers. If you respect her...then do as she says."

Eamon's eyes widened in surprise. Teagan put a hand on his shoulder. "He's right," said the Bann. "This is Hawke Theirin."

"Alistair," the Arl shook his head, a faint smile tugging on his lips, "you have grown, my boy."

"Well then," Teagan declared. "Let's escort Alistair and Lady Hawke to their room. Might as well get to bed. I'm rather tired. Too much ale, I think. Must be getting old."

The two monarchs followed without a word, led by a Bann and an Arl, both their fathers dead and making due with substitutes. The halls were winding, and Hawke immediately lost her way. Finally, though, Alistair opened the door to the room, and she stepped inside.

A fire had been started in the grate long ago as the room was bursting with heat. A luxurious bed drew her attention immediately, the crimson and gold sheets bunched too high for anyone to sleep comfortably. Beautifully embroidered pillows sat at the headboard, plump with cotton. The canopy arched high, draped in red curtains tied back with yellow string. She had no doubt the mattress was made of the finest material.

Beneath her feet the carpet was plush as she walked across it, nearly setting her off-balance as her ankles adjusted to keep standing. Bric-a-brac decorated the walls, figurines and books lined up on the fireplace. Two paintings hung on the walls, one of a woman holding a child. The other was a portrait of some man she'd never seen before. Next to the bookcase was a door that probably led to an adjacent bathroom.

All in all the room was fit for a king. One had to open a door, walk past three alcoves cleverly disguised as potential separate routes, and traverse through another hallway to reach it. There was no doubt in Hawke's mind that she would get lost a few times before finally deciphering the way. She put her hand on the bed, feeling the fine silk. It was the sort of place women dreamed about spending their wedding night.

The door shut after Teagan and Eamon offered their goodbyes, more than a trace of a smile on their lips, and Hawke smoothed her fingers over the duvet. "Maker, I'm about to have a panic attack."

Distress was plain in his honey eyes. A sort of nervous energy surrounded him, and he stood near the door as if afraid to approach her. She tried to calm her own palpitating heart. Making love was an old dance to her; she knew the steps, wanted to reacquaint herself with them. The only problem was that Alistair seemed to know nothing. So she took the initiative.

"Listen, we don't have to consummate the marriage tonight," she said frankly with a flourish of her hand. She leaned her hip against the bed, crossing her arms. "A marriage is still a marriage whether it's consummated now or in ten years."

_Not that ten sexless years sounds like a good time to me_, she thought. Alistair was a handsome man. At some point during the night, she'd grown rather attached to the idea of staking her claim on him, but he looked frightened out of his wits. Besides, with the mental toll the night had taken, she wasn't entirely against crawling into bed with him and simply going to sleep.

Alistair was red in the face and pointedly not looking at her. "Look, I just...I've never done this before. Well...that's not strictly true. There was the once, but that wasn't...it wasn't with anyone I cared about."

Her heart fluttered.

_Not with anyone you cared about. Does that mean you care about me, husband?_ She pushed the thought down and cleared her throat.

"Only if you want, Alistair," she said in a kind voice. "I won't ask more."

She watched him carefully, saw him take in the shape of her body. A sense of vulnerability washed over her, an innate shyness she always experienced with new lovers. Was she too plain? Too old? Ah, but desire lurked in his eyes, in the hungry gaze he swept over her. She knew it well, how men lusted. Drawing up her courage, she advanced on him and pressed her fingers against the stubble at his jaw. He reacted by lowering his head, almost as if in shame.

"Let me teach you, all right?" she whispered. "Let me be your first."

He swallowed and nodded almost imperceptibly. Enthused, she lead him further into the room and began working the buckles on his armor. Memories of quick trysts in the corners with her guards came flooding back. The clang of armor had become a pleasant ring, a reminder of the sweet soreness that followed. Still, the idea of having sex with her husband in his golden armor was embarrassing-too street for such an elegant occasion. So the chest plate came off, and the gauntlets were placed on the floor. His bracers were his own responsibility. The undressing happened wordlessly, and she slipped out of her own cotton dress and draped it across a nearby chair. Her Orlesian shoes were placed by the chair. When she turned around, she felt rather naked.

Even out of his armor he was a bulking man. How she could ever think him timid or small was ridiculous. His chest was as wide as her shoulders, his arms roped with muscles. A white shirt constricted around his torso, but he was rather thin-waisted. He was a man who had defeated the Blight. Warriors and warriors. Blood and blood between them. She reveled in their similarities.

She grabbed his hands and put them on her lower back, keeping eye contact. Strong fingers curled against the thin taffeta slip. Delicious heat bled through his palms, and she shivered. Standing high on her toes, she captured his lips with her cool mouth and kissed him long and deep. Too long since she had kissed anyone. The last was a boy in Lothering, eleven years previous. Kissing was too personal, too sentimental for such base acts of carnal joy. With Alistair it was different. Alistair was her husband, hers to kiss and caress as she saw fit.

The plains of his stomach she explored with her hands, very aware of how solid his own were against her back. She threaded her fingers through his hair, feeling the softness of each strand. He was hot to the touch, his mouth molten against her own. Yet he didn't move, didn't dare. Not even when she paused to pull the pins from her hair and cast them to the ground. Men loved to touch her hair. The shine and healthiness of it attracted them. Alistair was unaffected.

"Kiss me, Alistair," she instructed at last. "Don't you want to?"

He was so red in the face. "Yes, I do, but-"

"So do it," she said. "I won't push you away. You can't hurt me."

Then he looked at her with such strange reverence, such complete innocence that she broke and felt almost ashamed. Whether he wanted to have sex or not was irrelevant suddenly. He wasn't ready. That much was entirely clear. She felt the wicked man leading a young maiden into his parlor, ready to deflower her at any instant. So she took a proper step back and clutched his hand, drawing him to the bed.

"This woman that you gave yourself to," she started, drawing circles in his palm, "you didn't like her?"

"I hated her," he growled. "It was Mahariel's idea. I can't explain it to you-Grey Warden secrets and all-but it wasn't a night to remember. It's not-it's not how I wanted to spend my first…well, the first time."

"Alistair," she laughed a little, hoping to lighten the mood, "you're too much a gentleman, my friend."

He smiled, but it was uncertain. "Hawke, it's not that...you're very beautiful-"

"Stop," she held up a hand. There was no doubt in her mind that she could kindle his fire if she wanted. It was only a matter of overriding his fear. "This isn't a wasted thing; I've learned something of you. Something I couldn't have learned any other way. My taste for adventure and sex has made me forget that at the end of the day we're still strangers. Perhaps it wasn't proper, this."

"It's your right," he frowned. "We're husband and wife now. It was proper." He seemed certain, but she knew if she kissed him again he would falter.

"No, it wasn't," she shook her head. "I'm selfish, that's one thing you'll learn about me. So let me apologize, Alistair, for attempting to make your second first time a forced experience."

He didn't answer, staring simply into the fire. The twitch of a smile started at the corner of his mouth. She patted his hand and kissed his cheek. Fatigue washed through her, thick and strong. It was pleasurable just to be near him, to soak in his heat.

"Come on, then," she tugged on his hand, standing up. "I'm tired, and I know you must be. We'll lie to the others in the morning if we must. For now, let's just sleep."

The blush spread across his cheeks, and he ducked his head. "I can-I'll sleep on the floor. If you like."

"My husband sleep on the floor?" she demanded, aghast. "The king of Ferelden? No, you'll sleep beside me. Holding me, if you don't mind. I'm quite the cuddle-bug if given the choice."

Once again he seemed ready to smile, but instead he hung his head. She touched his shoulder. "Don't be so miserable. This has been a…a crazy day."

"Yeah," he chuckled lightly. Without another word, she left him at the end of the bed and began tossing pillows to the floor. There were far too many. She preferred one if any at all. When they were successfully ridden, she slid under the warm duvet and stared expectantly at him. He joined her with only a slight hesitation.

What a strange sensation to feel a man's arm around her waist again. The pulse of another's heart against her back. His breath tickled her neck, warm and welcome. The fire was too low to be a danger, burning a bloody red in the hearth. Darkness was filling up the room, the heat stifling under all the blankets. Yet she found herself utterly content with all the heat after so many years in Kirkwall's bitter cold.

Though Alistair was tense around her and decidedly unlikely to sleep until he relaxed, the stress of the day whisked her into the Fade before she could offer a word of comfort to him.

* * *

><p>Hawke woke ungracefully tangled in golden sheets with too-hot beams of the sun streaming over her eyes. Raising a hand to fight off the intrusion of light, she moaned and turned over with the intention of curling her arms around the warm body next to her and going back to sleep. She secured herself tightly against Alistair's back, cheek pressed against his shoulder and began to drift again when the door was nudged ajar. Her eyes popped open out of pure instinct.<p>

A young elven girl was scooting a silver cart, dressed in the typical green silk dress maids in the palace wore with an apron draped across her hips. She didn't notice Hawke's gaze at all, proceeding to shut the door as quietly as possible and wheel what was most certainly the married couple's breakfast into the middle of the room. Then she went to open the blinds.

"Don't," Hawke ordered, startling the girl nearly out of her wits. "He's still asleep. The light will wake him."

"Oh, I'm sorry, my lady," the girl whispered, "but the Arl has instructed me to wake the king. He has an appointment in an hour. You've slept nearly until midday."

"Have I really?" she sighed. "Doesn't Eamon know that the day after the wedding belongs to the wife? What am I supposed to do all day?"

The maid said, "Actually, there's a rather strange-looking man pacing in front of your door. I suspect he wants to talk to you. Other than that, Bann Teagan says the day is yours."

"That's awfully kind of him," Hawke quipped sarcastically, leaning over to shake Alistair. "Wake up, my king. Your kingdom calls."

He groaned. "Mahariel, the bleeding archdemon can _wait_five more minutes."

Hawke pinched him hard on the ear, and he bolted awake, nearly colliding foreheads with her. "What in the name of Andraste was that for?"

"I suggest you not dream of other women when you're in bed with me," she frowned, watching him rub his ear. "I'm a jealous person."

"Jealous, selfish," he muttered. "You're not exactly making yourself sound good."

"Does it matter?" she wiggled the ring in front of him. "Looks like I have you hooked, husband. Now come on. Eamon says you have an appointment."

"I do?" he appeared perplexed.

"Um, with the Circle, m'lord," the elven maid prompted.

"Oh, right," he groaned, rubbing at his eyes. Hawke threw her legs over the side of the bed, admiring the softness of the carpet beneath her toes. The smell of sweet rolls and butter had filled the room, and she was beginning to feel hungry. Helping herself to a pastry covered in icing, she poured some tea from the silver pitcher into a cup and handed it to him. He thanked her in surprise as she nibbled thoughtfully at her food.

"Alistair, have you any idea where they've put my horse?"

"The stables, I imagine," he sighed. Hawke watched the elf girl move about the room straightening books and keeping as quiet as possible. "I really don't feel like talking to the Circle right now. Greagoir looks ready to slice my head off every time I suggest we let the mages fight in this soon-to-be war."

She kneeled in front of him and, in a gesture of absolute familiarity, put a hand on his knee. "We could meet up afterwards, you know. Romantic picnic by the river, horse-riding, a bit of getting to know one another better: a proper date. Just the two of us, what do you say?"

Nervously, he took a sip of his tea. Blood colored his cheeks, and she was beginning to appreciate how adorable it made him look. Never had she seen a man blush quite so often. Of course, the men she traveled with hardly had a reason to. "I don't know what else Eamon has planned for today."

"You're _king_," she pressed. "Sod what Eamon has planned. If it's not important, he and Teagan can take care of it.

"They would be there anyway," he admitted, warming to the idea.

"Precisely."

"Well," he considered, "all right. I suppose it sounds like fun."

Satisfied, she beamed at him. "Well, get dressed then. The sooner the meeting is over, the sooner I can have you to myself."

As he slipped into the bathroom with a set of clothing, she finished what was left of her pastry and stood in the middle of the room. The maid approached and fussed with the bed, turning up the corners and tucking the blankets tightly while Hawke ate yet another sweet roll. The icing was heavenly. As she drank her tea, Alistair emerged in a dark red tunic and black trousers. She kissed him on the cheek as he left the room.

"What's your name?" Hawke asked the elven girl. She startled slightly.

"Um, Marni, m'lady."

"Marni, would you mind fetching my riding chaps?"

She paused, smoothing her tiny fingers over the bed. "The lady wouldn't like to wear a dress today?"

"Hah!" laughed Hawke. "Last night was the first time I've worn a dress since I was sixteen. I wear my armor everywhere I go, but Gwen gets angry at me when I ride her with it on. So my chaps will have to do."

"I-I confess, m'lady, I don't know where your riding chaps might be," the maid said sadly. "I could ask the riding stables if they might have a pair."

"The bride room on the second floor is where all my things are stored," Hawke said. Then she glanced up. "Oh, I suppose I shouldn't be ordering you about. I'm sure you have chores to do."

"Actually, m'lady," Marni cleared her throat, coming closer, "I didn't want to interrupt your talk with the king to tell you, but Bann Teagan has hired me to be your personal maid. I am at your disposal utterly and completely."

Hawke must have let her displeasure mixed with surprise show on her face, because the girl's smile melted away. "Unless, of course, the lady is displeased with me and would like to pick her own maid."

"It's not that," Hawke assured her. "I've simply never had a personal maid. Only servants that took care of my whole family. I don't…I'm unsure what a personal maid does."

"My role is to take care of you," she insisted, and Hawke realized just how young she was as she stood closer. "I will do anything the lady asks of me.."

"How old are you, Marni?"

Her cheeks colored, and she looked down, fingers clasped together. "I'm ashamed to say I'm only fourteen, but I have a lot of experience. My mother was a personal maid, and I grew up here at the castle."

"Fourteen is awfully young…"

"I'm sorry," she turned an even darker shade of red. "I can tell Bann Teagan you would prefer not to have me as your maid. I'm certain he will assign me elsewhere."

"No," Hawke shook her head. "It's all right. You can stay. Just…fetch my chaps for me, will you? After that, the day is yours."

Her eyes widened. "You are quite generous. Are you certain you don't wish me to do anything else?"

"Well, you'll be about, right? If I need you?"

"Of course," replied Marni.

"Then I'll see you when you get back," Hawke smiled at her. "Oh, and will you bring the rest of my things here? I suspect this is where Alistair and I will be living. I'd like to personalize it a bit."

"Certainly, m'lady," she bowed and began to exit. Just as she opened the door, Fenris breezed past her, nearly knocking her down. He stood in the middle of the room, appearing agitated. When his eyes came to rest on Hawke, he relaxed.

"Fenris," she said. "Are you all right?" What could possibly have gotten him so upset?

"I can't remember the last time you slept this late," he mused, crossing his arms. Then bitterly, "It must have been a _straining_wedding night."

Hawke couldn't help it. She flushed and frowned disapprovingly at him. Fenris never commented on her exploits, though his disdain for them was known to her. Waving at Marni who was hesitating in the doorway, Hawke glared. "I certainly hope you're not chastising me for sleeping with my _husband._"

He shrugged, unrepentant.

"You know, there are some cute serving girls around here," she gestured vaguely. "Maybe you could find a nice woman to settle down with instead of scowling at me all the time."

Immediately he snarled, "Don't be absurd."

"Then I don't want to hear it," she said. "What do you have planned for today?"

"Nothing."

"Good," she smiled. "How about you and I go out to the training yard and spar a bit?"

"In your nightgown?"

Hawke glanced down and realized that she was in fact wearing only a thin nightgown. Not only was it satin and taffeta—a nearly transparent set of materials anyway—but it was a light pink color that left nothing to the imagination. Actually, she could see the outline of her purple panties through it and the white lace of her bra. "Oh. Sorry. You _did_come in uninvited."

"I have seen you naked before, Hawke," he pointed out.

She blinked in confusion. "When have you…? Oh, right."

When the Bone Pit was attacked, Hawke rushed out without any real preparations. She'd been dripping blood by the time the dragon was killed, her sword arm crushed, her patella twisted. The sheer number of broken bones was staggering. For a week and a half Anders stayed at her mansion in Hightown healing the damage. Of course, it was easier to gain access to an unconscious woman's broken bones and burns when she was naked. With everyone visiting and fretting about her, the entire group had seen her bare and bruised by the time it was over.

Fenris had been there when she first woke up—an embarrassing moment to be sure.

"That girl, Marni, is bringing me clothes," Hawke told him. "No, I'm not going to spar with you in my nightgown. What do you say, though, to a completely normal training session? I'll put on leathers and everything."

"You don't think it would be improper for the future queen, husband of the king, to be seen sparring with 'that strange-looking bodyguard?'" he demanded jadedly.

"Fenris, you were my strange-looking _friend_ first," she explained as though it were obvious. "Sod what the nobles think, and to the void with decorum. Let's have some blasted fun."

With something that might have been a smile on his lips, Fenris gave a short bow. "Then I'll meet you in the training yard soon, Hawke." As he turned to leave, he nearly bumped into Marni again on her way in, but he skillfully slid around her.

The door closed.

"I brought your trunk, but the rest the guards will have to carry," she said, holding a light green suitcase with black trim in her arms.

"That's okay," Hawke insisted, taking the case from her arms. "All I really need are my leathers right now. I feel like I'm walking around naked."

Mentioning her state of undress somehow brought Marni's thoughts toward Fenris, because she asked, "My lady, who was that man?"

"Why," Hawke asked wryly, tugging on her trousers, "fancy him, do you?"

"No—No!" she protested at once. "It's just…it is improper for a young lady to be in the presence of another man unsupervised."

A moment of silence passed. Then Hawke couldn't help it: she burst out laughing. "There are so…so many things wrong with what you've just said!" As Marni's face turned nearly vermillion in color, Hawke tried to contain her laughter.

"I don't understand," the maid said.

"First," Hawke giggled, holding up a finger, "I'm not young. I'm thirty years old. Secondly, Fenris is my _bodyguard_ and friend and a more proper gentleman you couldn't find. And thirdly, I'm not a maiden about to be deflowered at any moment. Maker, I haven't had to fret about that since I was fifteen." She dissolved into laughter again, snapping her gauntlets into place and checking her buckles.

The entire outfit was made for her as a wedding present on Varric's behalf. Because she couldn't very well go around in her Champion armor all the time and she detested dresses and skirts, he'd thought it would be more practical if she had a simple set of leathers to wear around the castle. Buried deep beneath her various pairs of underclothes was a dagger that she strapped to her ankle, hidden by the black leather boots she wore.

Finally her chuckling died down, and she shot a glance at the maid. The girl looked rather miserable. "Oh, cheer up," Hawke said brightly. "You made me laugh, and that's a bonus for anyone. I think we'll get along fine." She packed away the case and slid it under the bed for safe-keeping. "I'm going to the training yard."

Leaving the girl behind with a friendly smile on her face, Hawke waved at the guards stationed outside the door as she slipped down the hallway.

* * *

><p><strong>Silly, lusty Hawke, trying to seduce a virgin! What's wrong with you? Thanks for reading. Review if you want another chapter.<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: It's Almost Easy**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair**

**A/N: Thanks for Reading. Review please.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 4<span>

Fenris came at her again, and their practice staves clashed violently. Her hands lined up exactly with his, their noses nearly touching. Her feet slid in the dirt as she tried to throw all her strength against him and find purchase, but he wasn't a rogue like her. He spent his days lugging around a thirty pound great sword as though it were a dagger. So when push came to shove, the wood threatening to crack and splinter under the immense amount of pressure they both were putting on the weapons, Hawke launched herself back and nearly stumbled to the ground.

Sweat trickled down her face, her hair plastered to her forehead. Guards were watching with some interest, bored on their patrols and latching onto any form of entertainment. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she righted herself, feeling the delicious tremble in her muscles. After all the anxiety of her wedding day, it was nice to relax and find her center. The moment she regained her footing, she charged at the elf waiting patiently with guarded eyes.

She slashed at him with the end of the stave, hoping to surprise him, but he knocked it away with his own without missing a beat. Years and years of fighting side by side, sprinkled with intermittent training sessions together, meant that little of her technique was a secret to him. He ducked her next attack and attempted to sweep her off her feet by slamming the end into the back of her legs, but she ignored the pain and wouldn't let it cripple her. Instead, she used her shoulder to shove him back. Fenris actually faltered.

"Hawke," he panted, "no hands. You're cheating. Again."

"I'm not," she feigned innocence, ramming the stave in the dirt. "That was…my shoulder." Clapping her hands, she took a fighting stance with her palms out. "Come on."

Accepting her challenge with a wolfish grin, he twisted and launched his own stave directly at her. In alarm, she dodged out of the way as it crashed into her weapon, bending it backwards before snapping it clean in half. "If that…had hit me—" she began, but he appeared in front of her instantly, and she threw up an arm to block off his attack.

Fighting in constant battles, they'd all gained new skills. Out from under his master's watchful eye and away from Aveline, Fenris had adapted to his lyrium markings rather than shying from them out of fear or shame. He could become nearly invisible in shadows, slide his arm right through a locked door, or incapacitate a man from the inside out. The uses were limitless but also annoying when she was trying to grab him about the waist. She locked arms with him, seeing the strain of their practice in the shine of his skin, his warm breath rapid against her cheek. Just when she thought she had an edge, forcing him to step back as he slid in the dusty earth, he flashed incorporeal and sent her to the ground.

She rolled and swore, but he was just close enough for her to hook a foot around his ankle and send him toppling as well. A grunt of surprise, and they were caught in another inert struggle, fighting lamely and sluggishly against one another. Finally Hawke gave a bark of laughter and gave up, letting him pin her.

"You're…fast," she admitted, breathing harshly. "The throwing…stick was a bit…much, though."

He grinned down at her, the light of the sun catching his hair with an ethereal shine. To see him happy, even filthy and tired, made her heart swell in her chest. The pressure on her wrists let up just a bit. "I wouldn't have…hit you…Hawke."

"I know. Here…let me up…" he immediately complied, sitting back on his haunches. Just as he did, she threw her arms around his waist and pinned him in turn. He expelled a breath of surprise as her weight landed on him, a human much more robust than an elf no matter the gender.

"I win," she declared, posed over him in much the same manner he had been to her.

He shook his head. "You always cheat…doesn't matter…never matters what the rules…are."

"It does matter," she argued. "I just never follow…them. You…choose to…do so, and don't…penalize me for it. So…I have an…an advantage."

"Twisting the logic," he said with some amusement. "Too much…time with Isabela."

"No matter," she dismissed, finally catching her breath. Thirst was rising in her throat. "Do you…do you submit?"

Fenris seemed to think about it. The day was still young. As sparring practices went, an hour wasn't a very long one. If her muscles weren't already shaking in protest, she would have gone on for a little while longer before succumbing to tricks. Hawke hadn't trained in a while, though, and her stamina was lacking. Finally he said, "I do."

"No phasing next time," she chided, backing off and swiping some hair out of her face. He sat up on his knees and rubbed absently at his arm.

"Are you…setting _another_ rule?"

"Yes," she smiled. "It's not fair. You're…stronger than I am."

"You're _quicker_," he told her, frowning as he glanced at his arm. She followed his gaze and touched the back of his hand.

"Did I hurt you?"

Once upon a time he might have flinched at the gentle brush of fingers, but he hardly registered it now. Time had adapted him to her common physical affection. "No, my…markings are acting up. It is of no importance."

"That's your dominant arm," she noticed with some concern. "Is it only there?"

"No," he answered truthfully. "Don't worry about it, Hawke. I know myself, and this happens when I travel."

"Well, if they _hurt_," she said, "you should have said something. We shouldn't have sparred." Honestly, she felt at times a mother clucking disapprovingly over her children. Aveline and Fenris felt they had no limits and pushed themselves far too often. Hawke had always been uneasy when it came to his markings. The unknown potential locked within them frightened her, and she was afraid that one day he might just move past the breaking point.

Fenris stood gingerly and offered a hand. "I enjoyed it," he murmured warmly.

Still frowning, she let him pull her up but kept a hold on his fingers, squeezing them. "Me, too. Just don't hide things from me. Okay?"

He nodded his assent and stared pointedly at his gloved hand until she released him and stretched, bones cracking unpleasantly. The few guards that had been watching had turned into a sparse crowd staring intently. Hawke registered that she had perhaps been acting improper for a noble woman, but she hardly cared. Patting Fenris on the back, she went to the shaded area of the stables and took a long drink from the barrel of water nearby, using the pale for a cup.

As she handed it to Fenris, a slow clapping started. A slinking shape materialized out of the shadows as her vision adjusted to the dark. Zevran was propped in one of the windows, a lazy arm slung over his crooked knee. The slap of leather against leather ceased as he grinned roguishly at her. From where he was seated, it was obvious he had a clear view of their sparring session. "My, my, I haven't seen such utter disregard for social formalities since the Warden and I visited last spring."

"I don't care much for political images, Zevran," she said coolly.

"Ah, but that's the name of this game," he held up a finger. "Yet outsiders like you and me and Mahariel get away with our eccentricities. Strange, no?"

"Hardly," she sneered, crossing her arms. "You two are written off because you're elves. We'll see if I can get away with so much as cursing in front of the other women."

He laughed. "You'll be the talk of the courts, not that you aren't already. For all Mahariel's stoic respect for the rules, she does adore creating a little chaos now and then."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, my little queen, you are of mage blood, rather old as far as fertility goes, and you did kill the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall before surreptitiously stealing the crown and title of Viscountess," he explained. "The nobles think you're some secret mage usurper here to kill Alistair in his sleep and assume the title of ruler all by yourself. Very cloak and dagger. I approve. They usually have no imagination."

A silence came over Hawke, and Fenris glared. "That's insane," she said at last.

"Rumors, at the heart, usually are, my dear."

"And what do you mean 'create a little chaos?' Eamon was the one who suggested I marry Alistair."

Again he laughed, and she felt a coil of anger settle in her stomach at it. She must have shown the feeling in some way because Fenris lingered ever closer and Zevran held up a placating hand. "No, no, I don't mean to make fun of your ignorance. In fact, I find it quite enlightening to talk to someone who isn't at the heart of all this…" he gestured at the air, "intrigue."

"Explain," said Fenris.

"Do you truly think Eamon so devious? Of course it was Mahariel who suggested the entire affair. If left to Eamon, our inexperienced little king would have married the typical royal bride: a whiny young waif from a family with high fertility, easily silenced with expensive dresses and jewels." Raising an eyebrow and looking at her skeptically, he asked, "Surely you knew that some pull was necessary to make you queen?"

"Of course."

"Well, there you have it," he said, satisfied. "Ah, Mahariel was right. I feel much better now that I've told you. The guilt was crushing me, you see." By the playful tone of his voice, she knew he was lying. If there was a reason he had told her, it didn't show itself plainly.

At the start of it, she knew that someone somewhere had twisted and coerced and bribed until enough people approved to let her on the throne. Alistair might have been able to choose from anyone in the kingdom, whether they were willing or not, but he would never have married a woman the courts disapproved of. The entire affair would have been political suicide.

No doubt Eamon had been a part of the major push. Old men wanted grandchildren, even pseudo ones. Time was short for a Warden, that much Hawke knew. Wardens had thirty years after the ceremony, maybe less. With the war raging, the time for patient waiting in the hopes that love would bloom was over. Eamon obviously wasn't the one that suggested Hawke as a bride. Mahariel must have pulled strings and used her position to make sure that the Viscountess of Kirkwall, a major official with an endless love for mages, became the king's wife.

As for the rest, she knew her age tipped the odds of having a baby out of their favor. Her Amell blood made a mage child a possibility even if both parents had no aptitude for basic magic. So it made sense that it would take a hero—with endless cunning and influence—to convince a world of proper men and women that polluting the Theirin bloodline was not such a terrible sacrifice.

"This is all rather trivial at this point," she said. "You're just here to play with me, aren't you?"

Zevran's expression changed; he almost appeared sheepish. Hopping down from his perch, he crossed his arms and glanced outside. "Ah, I do admit that my dear warden has been busy all day. I'm…well, bored is such a tasteless way of putting it."

Behind her, Fenris gave a low growl of pure exasperation. No matter how much time he spent around people of authority—and authority Zevran did have—he had no taste for the game of prestige. Hawke, however, smiled. What stood before her was an intriguing foreigner of stature with a seductive allure about him. Alistair probably wouldn't be ready for their impromptu date for a while yet. She could entertain him. "I hear tales that you're an assassin, Zevran," she struck up the conversation again.

Slowly, he smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about it. All teeth and ferocity. "Why, my beautiful queen, where have you been putting your ear?"

"A Crow," she enunciated slowly. "I've run into a few of your kinsmen. No easy opponents in the lot."

Arching a brow, his guard melted slightly. "Are you trying to win my heart with flattery?" he teased. That he was changing the topic of conversation didn't elude her. His being an assassin was clearly a forbidden area.

"Would it work?"

He inched closer, eyes flickering to Fenris but for an instant. Hawke knew he wouldn't say anything, wouldn't interfere at all. Harmless flattery and charm was just a tool she used to get what she wanted. Using it in casual conversation, however, was fun, too. "So strange, you Ferelden women," he said thoughtfully. "I am constantly in awe. My heart is easily won. That is superficial. My loyalty, I'm afraid, comes at a much higher price."

Just as she was about to reply, perhaps in a sultry and suggestive tone of voice, she stopped short and caught the small and unassuming outline of an elf that moved with a stalking grace. Mahariel was headed right for them, and Hawke nodded past his shoulder. "It seems your lover has found you, Zevran."

The way his eyes simultaneously lit up and his body tensed was perhaps the strangest conflict of emotions she'd ever seen. He turned to glance out the window of the stables, bracing his leather gloves against the dark, grayish wood.

Fenris caught her upper arm. "Are you expected anywhere else?"

"No," she said, the buzz of his markings against her skin jolting her only slightly. Then she turned and thought about it. "Well, I suppose we might go and find out where Alistair is. We have date, and I want to take a bath."

Quickly, he took in her appearance and apparently noted nothing wrong. "There's no need."

"That's sweet," she patted his hand, and he let go with a startled expression. Clearly he'd forgotten that he'd been holding on. "My hair is wild, and I'm covered in sweat. You're used to seeing me like this."

"And you're all the more beautiful for it," piped Zevran, watching the two of them with an acute interest. "Tell her, bodyguard, how lovely she looks with her hair blowing in the wind, her lips and cheeks flushed, and her skin moist. These women don't understand that not all men adore the powdered ghosts bred to flaunt their vanity in court."

"Enough," Hawke frowned, but her heart beat fast in her chest at the lusty confidence in his eyes, the slow once-over that seemed to peel away her clothes and leave her shivering and naked without touching her at all. "Mahariel's clearly looking for you."

Mahariel stood in the grounds beyond the barn, a rather large painted dog at her heels. She spoke quickly and calmly with a guard, making sharp gestures with her hands. Nothing subtle about her at all. Zevran cast a glance over his shoulder and schooled his features into one of ease, but there was a fiery mischief burning in his golden eyes. "If she wants me, she'll find me. Never will I be called like the mutt at her heels."

_Ah_, she thought, _so __that _is _a __steady __heart __you __have __there._

She'd run into plenty of men like Zevran. Too many hearts, too many beds, too little time. If she was honest, Varric fit the description himself. A heartbreaker, a charmer, a playboy, a Casanova, a skirt-chaser, a stud, a lady-killer. Also a wanderer, a nomad, a loner. And she'd seen the women who attempted to tame them: unique and unbreakable, willing to put up with their ways and scold them when they got home. Confidant and unbothered. The nature of their courting would be one built on power, and it was clear whom ruled who in Zevran and Mahariel's relationship. So Zevran kept his own version of control—that he wouldn't be summoned.

He would come and go on his own terms or not at all.

As a woman—naturally the submissive one in a relationship—she understood the need for that freedom, however small.

"We won't give away your hiding place," she winked, guiding Fenris toward the door. The light was blinding as they stepped from the shadows of the stable, the sun warm and welcome. Hawke squinted as Mahariel approached, her silver armor glistening.

"Fenris, Hawke," she dipped her head in a curt greeting, "have you seen Zevran?"

"He's in the stables," Fenris said immediately. "We're going back to the castle."

"You're such a snitch," Hawke grumbled half-heartedly.

Lips pulled back from his teeth, the elf added, "He's hiding in the dark like a child, waiting for you to fetch him."

To Hawke's surprise, Mahariel gave a twitch of a smile. "That sounds like him." With a short bow, she slipped away, armor clinking.

Fighting the urge to smack him, Hawke scowled instead. "Why did you do that?"

"What if it was important?" he countered quietly.

"That wasn't it at all," she said. "That was spite, and that's all it was. You don't like him."

As Fenris began to walk away, she followed. "No," he agreed, "I don't."

"Why?"

For a long while, he didn't answer, and Hawke sighed in exasperation. The inner workings of his mind had always been a big blank slate to her. She could read almost anyone but not him. Not when he didn't want her to. Normally it didn't affect their conversations. Fenris was not very verbose. When coupled with Hawke, who spoke freely and easily, he listened often and offered little. During the times he actually contributed and then shut down on a moment's notice, they were left swimming in an uncomfortable silence.

So Hawke trudged along after him, allowing him to lead the way to the castle, slightly miffed at his refusal to answer her. Once they were inside the portcullis and up to her room, she grabbed one of her maids by the sleeve and asked her to run a bath and locate the king. If Alistair was expecting her, let him know that she was bathing and would join him shortly. With a slow bow, the maid scurried off, and Hawke pulled her trunk out from under the bed while Fenris brooded in silence against he far wall.

"I should have brought more clothes," she thought aloud, rifling through the sad collection of tunics and cotton pants. After selecting an outfit that wouldn't chafe under the leathers, she sat down on the bed and stared pointedly at Fenris.

He appeared uncertain and then began to speak. "He is unfaithful," he murmured softly, and Hawke's eyes widened at the realization that he was answering her earlier question.

"That bothers you?" she asked, mildly surprised, and he glowered.

"Shouldn't it?"

Hawke shrugged. "I'm not sure. Sex is currency in politics. I'm sure he loves Mahariel, very much if my intuition is right, but if he can, say, stop an assassination by seducing a target…"

Fenris's frown only deepened. "That's not what I mean."

"You mean that you dislike that he drinks and whores himself around," she said kindly, "but I think that's part of his very nature. Mahariel, for whatever reason, seems to love him. If she's fine with it, then it's none of my business."

_None __of _our _business, _she seemed to say.

Of course, Hawke's assurances wouldn't convince Fenris to suddenly embrace Zevran in brotherhood. To be honest, Hawke found the fact that he slept around slightly distasteful as well, but who was she to judge? The Viscountess who invited strangers to bed? The mercenary who tumbled in the woods with hired swords? The Queen who wrestled in the dirt with elves and flirted with assassins in dark stables?

"He is dangerous," Fenris concluded suddenly, and Hawke tore herself out of her reverie. "Dealings with him should be short."

"I'm not about to hire an assassin," she said. "I can take care of myself. And I have you here."

A bit of warmth back in his eyes. That tired affection. "Yes, I am here."

That was all she needed.

* * *

><p>Fenris excused himself to other duties around the castle—what she had no idea—and Hawke sunk into the heat of the bath without a care. Fatigue bled into her very bones as she rested her head against an embroidered pillow at the head of the stone basin. Even her fingers were too heavy to move, and she dozed silently for quite a while.<p>

When Marni came to shake her from her slumber she was nearly underwater, and all the bubbles had dispersed. "My lady, the king is waiting outside!" the young elf said frantically. "He says you have a date to keep."

"Oh, leave me alone for a minute, would you?" she grouched, slipping beneath the surface so that she couldn't hear Marni's voice. But the water was cold, and she resurfaced with a gasp. How long had she been asleep?

"Are you all right?" asked the maid.

"I'm fine," she coughed. "Where is he? Gather my clothes, and I'll get dressed." Disappearing out of the door, the maid left to fetch the garments.

Hawke stretched and curled her toes, feeling the ache from sitting on the cold stone for so long. Ten years ago, she could have sat there for two days without becoming the slightest bit sore. Maker, ten years ago she wouldn't have fallen asleep in the first place. A yellow bruise was coloring in at her hip, soon to be a dark purple. Swiping her hair out of her face, Hawke sighed. Thirty was too old to be sparring with spry young men. She was damaged to easily.

Finally she stood up, sopping wet and dripping. Marni entered and draped a towel around her shoulders. The queen stepped from the bath, languidly searching through the clothes for her panties and bra.

"Did you have a nice day?" Hawke asked the girl.

"I did," she answered earnestly. "I helped Bernard in the kitchen."

"Oh?" she tried to appear interested, even as she tiredly yanked on her trousers. "What's for dinner?"

"I'm, uh, not sure. I chopped potatoes."

"Hmm."

Food was the last thing on Hawke's mind, but her stomach gave a ravenous growl at the mention of potatoes. She'd eaten only two sweet rolls before training, and the calories and energy boost were both gone. Perhaps it explained why she was so exhausted.

Full dressed, she left the confines of the bathroom and shivered as the cooler air hit her skin. Alistair was standing near the door, less bulky without his armor on. Still an imposing figure. She smiled flightily at him and began to re-strap her gauntlets, carapace, and boots.

"You don't have to go out full-armed," he said. "I'm mean, well, we're just riding around. Aren't we?"

"Prep-ar-ation," she pronounced the word slowly, accenting each syllable. "Paranoia is another one of my fabulous qualities. I don't go anywhere without armor or a weapon. Preferably both. Last night was an exception."

Struck suddenly by a thought, she glanced at the chair where she'd laid her dress. It was gone. Her shoes were, too. So was the crown. Marni probably swept it all away.

"At least I'll have a guard," he said brightly, and she nodded.

"I'm sure a full compliment will follow us out." Adjusting the straps on her shoulders, she plucked the brush from the armoire and ran it through the wet strands of her hair. She heard a series of soft thuds as water dripped onto the leather. Pulling it back and tying it with a bit of tweed, she glanced briefly at herself in the mirror—an older warrior, fit for stealth or sneak—and joined him at the door.

"I've arranged for three guards," he confessed a bit sheepishly. "Eamon wouldn't let me go with less. Some date I am, eh?"

Already he was blundering, so she squeezed his upper arm in reassurance. "It's okay," she said. "It's too dangerous right now for us to prance about the grounds unprotected." Even if she could protect them both better than any trained guard. Well, he probably could, too.

Without ceremony, and without Hawke waving goodbye to Marni who was still in the bathroom draining the mess of cold water, they proceeded out the door and to the stables. How different to travel through the castle at Alistair's side! So many guards gave a short nod in greeting or an 'Evening, your majesties' as they passed. A few servants stopped what they were doing and ducked out of the way, as if they weren't fit to be seen in his presence.

At the stables (not the ones that she and Fenris spoke with Zevran in; those were near the training grounds and full of the guardsmen's horses) Hawke found her horse with relative ease. Gwen gave a soft whinny in greeting, nuzzling at Hawke's neck with deep affection. "Hey, girl," the rogue cooed gently, stroking the mare's nose.

Gwen was a blatant bribe from one of the nobles in Kirkwall for Hawke's favor. The mare was a skinny young foal with a fiercely unfriendly demeanor when she was received, and more than once Fenris suggested that Hawke sell the creature and get it over with. There was no place to ride a horse in Kirkwall, anyway. The mountains were too steep; the Keep didn't have a riding area. Too many rocks would chip and wear down Gwen's hooves. Yet Hawke refused to sell and persisted. Eventually, the horse developed some sort of love for her owner.

"You need brushed," said Hawke, running her hand over the black coat. The fur lacked its usual shine. "And some carrots."

Snorting into Hawke's shoulder, Gwen gave a sharp nibble on one of her carapace buckles. Alistair stood admiring her. "That's a fine horse," he said when she caught his eye.

"I love her," she said immediately, "even if she is a bit of a bitch sometimes."

Gwen stomped her foot and rammed her forehead into Hawke's chest, shoving her back so hard she stumbled. Alistair laughed, his hands steadying her.

"Maker, she's like a mabari," he grinned. "Understands everything you say."

The horse lifted her muzzle and gave a great shake of her head. "Too intelligent for her own good," murmured Hawke, sliding away from the cool pressure of his hands. "Where's your horse?"

"Over there," he inclined his head. "Teagan gave him to me. His name's Thomas." Hawke stood on her toes to see the horse, led from the stall by an elderly stableman. Thomas was very tall and robust, much bigger than Gwen ever could be. The legs were long and muscular, back long and flattened by the saddle. His main was trimmed short like most military horses, jet black against his neck. His body was a flat grey, the color of cold stone.

As Thomas was led closer, he dipped his head. Alistair rubbed at his ears, far less affectionate toward his own steed. Hawke went to fetch her saddle, fixing it firmly to Gwen's back. Thomas was already full-saddled, no doubt by the man holding him. The stir Gwen had caused when she was taken from Hawke probably frightened the rest of the stablemen. No one would have bothered her after such a dramatic scene.

"He's sort of old," Alistair confessed, as though it were a dirty secret. "Nearly seventeen years, but he's a sturdy horse."

"Ah, Gwen's a baby," Hawke said as she led the mare outside. "She's a mean one, but it's mostly because she's young." As she mounted, Gwen gave a rude buck at her words. Hawke smacked her back with the palm of her hand. "Knock it off."

Thomas was quiet and complacent as Alistair climbed seamlessly into the saddle, and Hawke was more than a little jealous. As much as she adored Gwen, she could do without the attitude at times. Once the both of them were seated, they began at a slow trot around, speaking about quaint topics: the weather, dog breeds, crop yield, and Hawke's activities for the day as the guards watched idly from their various positions. When the sun began to slip below the horizon (was it that late already?) Hawke challenged the king to a race, and they were off.

The only thing missing was her bow as she raced through the trees, feeling the heave of Gwen's lungs and the expansion of her chest, the thudding of her hooves against the ground a welcome and familiar sound. Cold air sent the horse's mane flying, Hawke ducking her head to avoid any burning on her cheeks. Beside her, she could see Thomas trying to pull ahead, his own rider bent low to gain speed.

All it took was a quick squeeze of her thighs to send Gwen flying toward the finish line. As the trees became more and more sparse, and Thomas slowed behind them, Hawke let up on the pressure and allowed Gwen to come to a full stop. The horse whinnied wildly, tossing her hair almost as if in celebration. "Come on, Alistair," Hawke grinned, exhilarated as Gwen trotted in circles, "don't let yourself get beat by a lady. Well, two ladies."

He laughed. "I'll tell you something: during the Blight, my manly pride was dashed on the rocks too many times for this to hurt."

"I'll bet," she winked. Gwen whipped her head back and forth a few more times before settling, and Hawke dismounted with ease, rubbing the mare's thick neck as she stared at the sunset.

Light pinks and yellows spilled over the horizon, bathing them both in an orange glow. They stood on the edge of a rocky outcropping, a plain of thick green grass stretched out before them. Alistair came up beside her, holding onto Thomas's reins as he stared out with her. Hawke was breathless, the high of physical exertion buzzing through her veins.

"How'd the meeting go?" she asked suddenly.

"Fine," he replied. "Greagoir is upset that so many mages have escaped. He almost threatened me in front of my guard. I thought Mahariel was going to cut his throat." He sounded nervous, as if it was a genuine concern of his.

"She was there?"

"Yeah," Alistair said. "Once your coronation is final, you can join us at the meetings, too."

_And __that__'__s __when __it __really __begins_, she sighed. All this was just the preliminary trials. No, when she began to meet the great opponents and proponents to the cause, the gentle happiness she knew would burst into a life of chaos. It would be dishonest to say that her heart didn't pick up speed at the very though. Strife was what kept her going when times were dark. To live without it would bore her to death. To have something to focus on other than her and Alistair's awkward marriage situation would be a blessing from the maker himself.

Hawke felt Gwen lay her muzzle against the queen's shoulder, her soft touch kind and comforting. She missed her group of friends suddenly, Isabela's soprano laugh, Varric's clever eyes, especially Anders's fire and pure determination. His absence was like a lost limb, tingling faintly to remind her that he was gone that she must mourn him. Of course, she loved him, and to feel agony at his loss was only natural. Even if she never let him know. Even if she tried to guard her heart so she wouldn't get hurt.

Sometimes people sink so deep into our skin that we can't get them out.

* * *

><p><strong>I actually printed this off and almost gave it to my editor for the newspaper at my school. I'm so upside down. _._<strong>

**Thanks for reading. Review please.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: It's Almost Easy**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair**

**A/N: Thanks for Reading**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 5<span>

By the time they rode back, torches were lit all along the walls, spitting fire and setting the entire training yard aglow. Armored men rushed forward at the sight of them, relieved that they hadn't disappeared. After a flurry of explanations and apologies, they both dismounted, and Hawke plucked a brush from a bucket on the floor to run it through Gwen's fine hair, untangling her mane with precision and care. The horse rumbled softly, closing her eyes.

"I completely forgot about the picnic," Alistair appeared behind her, and she gave a small shrug of her shoulders. Guards were speaking rapidly amongst themselves, huddled around the stables entrance as if to bar the two of them from racing off again.

"Me, too," she admitted, "but it's dark already. The men are nervous. Let's not give them any undue stress."

Not entirely placated, he changed the subject. "Are you going to eat?"

"I was planning on it," she said, brushing Gwen's tail with hard strokes. "Why? Aren't you?"

"Yes…well, yes. It's just that I think we might have missed it."

Unconcerned, Hawke kissed Gwen's muzzle and put her hand on Alistair's chest to guide him out of the stall as she locked it. She'd give the horse a much more thorough brushing when Alistair wasn't chatting away at her, when she didn't have to control all her facial expressions and movements as if stepping around a particularly ornery dog. Leaning her back against the stall door, she crossed her arms and stared at him.

In the dark, the angular shape of his jaw was even more apparent. His hair and eyes were shaded, a man in shadows standing tall and tense while she slouched with a casual and natural ease. "We could eat in our room," she offered, realizing that by staying silent she was making him anxious. "If you have work to do, Alistair, I can entertain myself."

"N-no, I'll eat with you."

"Then come on," she pinched his cheek with a tender smile.

So the evening hadn't gone as planned; she'd run out of time. Given the hour or so they spent together, they didn't accomplish much by talking. Hawke had fallen asleep and wasted most of the day away. Still, it didn't matter. If fate was kind and the Maker willed it, they would have years to learn one another. Alistair still flushed when she held his gaze. She'd never thought the courting of a man could be so tentative, so shy. Perhaps she'd been with sinful and unhesitant heroes for too long.

The answer to their marriage was simple, really. Hawke had been too proud, too bold for her own good. She'd jumped blindly into what she assumed would be an intimate relationship right from the beginning. If she wanted his affection, maybe one day his love, she would have to be patient and revel in small gains for a while. Hawke wasn't a novice when it came to manipulation or charm. She could play the patient and understanding ruler, the kind and gentle wife even though she was frustrated inside that her husband was so tense and frightened around her.

Not that she thought him dense or irritable. Inside there was a part of her that found his blundering unique and endearing. In fact, it was almost a relief to be away from so many confident and cocky men and women, challenging her at every turn. At the very least, his intentions were clear: he wouldn't try to control her, and she was grateful for that. Always would be.

_Tomorrow_, she vowed, _I __won__'__t __be __such __a __fool __and __tire __myself __out. __I__'__ll __make __some __sort __of __progression._

Dinner, at least, was a positive affair. Hawke led them right into the kitchen and asked quite plainly what had been served and if a tray could be delivered to their room. The very smell made her stomach growl as the old woman—Hilda—told them food was already waiting, courtesy of Marni.

"Shouldn't be too cold, m'lady," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "If it is, you just send it right back, and we'll make something fresh."

"You're so sweet," Hawke flashed her teeth brilliantly in thanks.

The food was still warm, though not hot, and Hawke bit deeply into a doughy roll, the strawberry jelly within melting in her mouth. Alistair filled his plate, taking a seat at the small table in the corner as she nibbled thoughtfully and watched him. She wasn't trying to make him uncomfortable. Anders had also been a Grey Warden, and as such he'd eaten more than twice his weight in food a day. He'd explained it once. Something about an increased metabolism and stamina. Truthfully, she hadn't been paying attention, too distracted by the shimmer of his eyes.

Of course, she was often lost when around him, blown away by his perseverance.

Alistair did eat his fill, taking most of what was on the tray with an apologetic smile even though she was picking rather demurely at the rolls. The older she grew, the less she wanted to eat. There simply wasn't time, and her mind was so full with politics and regrets and worry for Bethany that eating held no pleasure.

When they were finished eating, Alistair ducked into the bathroom. A few minutes later as Hawke was poking through the collection of books in the bookcase, Marni appeared without a sound and slinked out with the cart. Hawke caught her arm before she could shut the door. "Do you know where Fenris is?"

She frowned in concentration. "I believe he was in his room reading the last time I saw him. He didn't come to dinner, m'lady."

"Did you bring him any food?"

"He refused it."

With a mildly exasperated sigh, Hawke plucked an apple from the cart and let Marni take it away. When the door was shut, she called, "Excuse me, Alistair, but I have to go feed my bodyguard."

"Oh," he peeked out of the washroom door. "Okay."

Wiggling her fingers in goodbye, she left and headed to the second floor. Fenris was probably suspicious of the food or had, as she did, too much on his mind to bother with eating. Unlike Hawke, however, he would go without for as long as possible. He was already thin, if muscular, so she worried.

His room was for guests, so it was compact and tucked away in a corner beside the stairs. They would have to find an alternative for a long-term stay, if he intended to guard her for the rest of his life. The thought of him leaving to find his own way caused her pain, but she hoped that he might take an interest in a girl. Maybe settle down and have a family. Forget about Danarius and the agony of his scars, however deep they were. Worse than watching him leave would be discovering that he never would.

"Fenris," she knocked on the door, "you there?"

Moments passed, and she heard the creak of a mattress, the near-soundless shuffle as he approached the door. The golden knob twisted, and he stared at her with his dark, sunken eyes. He seemed tired and pale. Agitation was clearly written on his face. Without delay, she presented the apple. "Eat something," she ordered.

"I'm not hungry, Hawke." Very deliberately, she pressed her palm to the door and brought each fingernail down with a clack against the wood, holding his gaze. She pushed the door until he stepped back with a reluctant sigh and let her in.

"You're hungry," she accused, poking him in the stomach as she passed. "What's wrong?"

Shutting the door, he crossed his arms and leaned against the opposite wall. Out of his armor he was so small. The dark tunic he wore clung to his tapering waist, the trousers spilling over his bare feet. At times she forgot that he was an elf, so intimidating was his persona. "Go back to your husband, Hawke. We can speak tomorrow."

"We're speaking now," she glared at the books on his wall. The volumes were difficult, sophisticated pieces of literature that even a seasoned reader would struggle with. They almost seemed like a taunt. Shaking herself, she turned to face him. "Talk to me. Please?"

All it took was a break in her voice, the pout of her lips, a fluttering lash and he was putty in her hands. Fenris's scowl melted, his defenses cracked. The distance in his eyes faded, and he heaved a sigh. "I…dislike being here," he confessed quietly.

She already knew. Before the wedding, he'd been hesitant to visit Ferelden even for her—the woman he'd been to the ends of the earth and back with. Politics didn't sit well with him. For a man who was entirely blunt and straight-forward about his intentions and beliefs, it was difficult for him to remain the quiet bodyguard and put up with the posturing hypocrites she was forced to surround herself with. No, he'd done that for too long in Tevinter, and she hated making him relive it even for formalities' sake.

When the night was finished, though, and the wine was heavy—when the clucking men and women were escorted home in their lavish carriages and no one else was around—he would pick them all apart bit by bit in the dark cellars of her Hightown mansion. He'd destroy their false little worlds, wrenching their darkest flaws from their beings and presenting them as he did an enemy's heart. She'd laugh and agree and drink with him, friendship growing with every sordid observation he made.

They were cruel and unforgiving, but what a pair they made!

"Me, too," she said without thinking. As his eyes widened a mere fraction, she realized it was true. She didn't like all the complications, the raging war, the fact that her sister was in the cold while she slept until midday on golden sheets. In her Keep she was in charge, but Alistair was ruler here. She felt second-best, unimportant, and superfluous. The nobles thought her an eccentric foreigner from Kirkwall come to usurp the throne.

No one would have dared think that in Kirkwall. She was a goddess there, a hero. Hawke was Champion.

Suddenly she laughed, and he shot her a questioning look. Waving her hand in dismissal, she said, "I'm just, ha, I'm being so childish. Do you know why I don't like being here?"

He shook his head.

"Because I don't have any power," she spread her hands, giggling. "Oh, I thought this alliance would let me change things, but it's clear that Alistair is the one in charge. Now I'm just the king's wife."

A glimpse of a smile on his lips, he mumbled, "You're incorrigible."

"I've heard that before."

"Courageous," he continued, "unyielding, unbreakable, undeniable."

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. "You're embarrassing me," she chided.

"Dedicated," he shook his head. "No one can stop you, Hawke. Nearly ten years, I've learned that much."

"Maybe," she said uncertainly. "But I meant to comfort you, not the other way around."

He barked a laugh, a dark thing, but it was a start. "I need no comfort, Hawke. I'm by your side, with you always."

The words were meant to give her happiness, but she couldn't help the shadow that passed over her features. She thought about bringing his leaving up all over again, but he was always so defensive when she did. So, instead, she murmured, "Thank you," and tossed the apple at him.

Reflexes greater than a cat's, he snatched it out of the air before it could topple to the ground. "I'm not hungry," he repeated, staring deep into the ruby red.

"Oh, eat it for me," she smiled, thumbing distractedly through his collection of novels lying on his bed. The duvet was a rich royal blue, very beautiful with silver embroidery. A faint crunch came from near the door, and she knew that Fenris had caved. Turning her attention back to the books, she noticed that most were gifts from her and were quite old. "When was the last time you had a new book?"

"Four years ago."

"I'll buy you a new one," she said, picking up a fine novel with a hard, green leather cover. A few pages were torn, her fancy, scrawling note to him smudged by a stray thumb. Reading was valuable to him, far more valuable than coin could ever be, and he'd received the ability from her. Just another thing that—to him—put him further in her debt.

But did he stay because he thought he had to or did he stay because he wanted to?

Oh, it was the same old question, the question that had haunted her while Anders was still alive. Heat, screaming, the torches in the clinic spitting fire while sick babies cried and old women hacked up their last breaths. They were arguing again. His words were like knives, the tears streaming down her face with every ragged condemnation he threw at her. How he tortured her. How much she wanted him, the creature that caused her the most pain. His raspy voice followed her out the door that night. _Are __you __here __because __you __want __to __be __or __because __you __think __you __should __be?_

Perhaps tensions would have been easier between them if he'd never fallen in love with her. Or what if she'd given in? Would their arguments have been so fierce? So brutal?

She'd never find out.

"You're thinking of Anders."

Fenris was quite close, and she jumped a little. For a moment she'd been staring off into space. "Sorry," she said at once. "How could you tell?"

"Your expression," he took the book gently from her and laid it on the bed. "He need not have died, Hawke."

"No, no, he had to," she shut down, backing up. Anders was dead; there was no point to debating whether or not it was righteous or fair. "_You _agreed with me."

"I know. But I didn't know how much you cared for him. At the time."

The weeks after Anders's death had been frantic, no proper time to mourn. With so many people begging with their hands out for her help, she couldn't break down no matter how much she wanted to. She couldn't analyze why it had to happen and move past it. The degradation had been a slow process. More than once she drank herself unconscious. She whored herself out to her men, heroes that could make her forget at the peak that it should have been Anders making her writhe and sweat and swear.

Isabela and Varric picked her up and dusted her off. Of all the people in the word, Fenris was the one who opened her eyes to the suffering of the mages, the rising rebellions. Someone had to lead.

"I…did care for him," she admitted, fingernails digging into her upper arms. "But I…we would have been a disaster."

A beautiful disaster. Between the two of them—his ingenuity and her leadership—they could have made the world a safe place for all mages. If he hadn't been so stupid, so ridiculously reckless, they might have accomplished something other than a few dozen graves in the ground and a smoldering pile of rubble.

Only after Fenris touched her shoulder in comfort did she realize the wetness on her cheeks. She wiped hastily at the tears and moved toward the door. "Goodnight, Fenris," she said in farewell and rubbed furiously at her eyes on the way back to her room. She hoped Alistair was asleep; she didn't want to explain.

Maybe one day they could discuss her six year almost-love-affair with an insane mage revolutionary but not anytime soon. She didn't even want to talk about it with Fenris—too awkward, too personal, and too intense for her. Living in a world of falsities had made her uncomfortable with anything realistic. Love came and went; it wasn't for her. The only person she was supposed to focus her romantic intentions on was Alistair, and she vowed to be a good wife. Faithful and loyal if she could at all help it. Dutiful.

And if in ten or so years their marriage remained loveless, she'd find a strapping young man to commit a lusty scandal with.

Alistair was sitting on the side of the bed when she came in, dressed down in his small clothes. "Is your, um, friend all right?"

"Fenris is _always _all right," she rolled her eyes playfully, bending down to tug off her boots. "I just pretend that he needs me when it's completely the opposite way around. I'm not sure what I'd do without him some days, even if he is a right gloomy git."

Her husband laughed lightly. "Sounds like Mahariel. I couldn't have gotten through the Blight without her—we'd probably all be dead right now if she hadn't been there—but, Maker, is the woman stern."

"Yeah," Hawke chuckled, leaving a regular trail of leathers and buckles as she approached the bed, "I caught that." She threw herself onto the bed beside him, landing on her back and stretching out. The tunic she'd put on earlier was casual enough to sleep in. The day was catching up with her, and she didn't feel like fishing around under the bed for her suitcase. "Oh, I'm so old."

He shot her a curious look. "You're only thirty, aren't you?"

"Right," she leaned forward. "Do you remember when you were eighteen and thirty seemed like the golden years? I thought I'd have it all figured out by then. Nice house, loving husband, four or five naughty kids running around. Couple of mabari for good measure."

"You're not so far from the dream," he said quietly. "You own a mansion in Hightown, and the castle is half yours. You're, well, married. To me. Dozen or so mabari in the kennels."

"Seems so," she agreed. "Now I just need the children. But I can't do that by myself." She curled her fingers around his forearm and squeezed gently before kissing him on the cheek. His stubble grazed her lips, rough and seductive. "Get into bed, then, husband. I'm exhausted."

* * *

><p>"Damn it, Eamon," Hawke smacked her hand on the wide dining table, nearly launching herself out of her chair. The plates rattled. Alistair jerked in surprise. "I don't care what that Orlesian bitch says, we're going to have a war if I have to start it myself!"<p>

"Hawke, please," begged Teagan, "calm down."

"We can't completely rule out the possibility of a peaceful solution," sputtered the Arl. "It would be both selfish and cruel to the rest of your kingdom. There are other people to consider, here, other than the mages in hiding. As ruler, you must see all sides of it—"

"Don't presume to lecture me," she sneered. "I've been a leader all my life, and I know what I must consider. What _you_must consider is that if we settle, if we let this grudge go, Orlais wins. My sister will continue living in the gutter. Not only is that not an option, it isn't even a possibility at this point."

Eamon shook his head. "You're being unreasonable. We wouldn't just settle; we would negotiate reasonable terms."

Feeling much like hitting the table again, Hawke gritted her teeth. "And they would coerce and bully until the mages ended up back in those damned towers."

"Hawke," Teagan said gently, "you would be there. You would have only a little less pull than the Divine."

Shaking her head irritably, she snapped, "That woman almost razed Kirkwall to the ground. I want her head on a holy platter, and I won't settle for less." With that, she stormed out of the dining hall, cloak swirling after her as she wandered aimlessly in an attempt to calm down.

The entire breakfast had been peaceful until the letters started arriving. Isabela was warming Sebastian Vael's bed—no surprise—, Varric couldn't find anything to blackmail the guild member giving him trouble (_There __has __to __be __something, __Hawke, __he__'__s __a _Guild _member_), Aveline suspected trouble in Kirkwall (_Tell __Cullen __that __if __he __doesn__'__t __get __his __foot __out __of __my __ass, __I__'__m __going __to __shove __a __sword __up __his)_, and the empress of Orlais was proposing an alliance, a political scheme to avoid war. Given Hawke's feelings, the letter was more an insult with its swirling emerald ink and expensive parchment than an invitation, and she'd lost her cool the second Eamon started considering it.

Unbecoming of a queen, she was sure.

Hawke was so preoccupied with fuming about the entire ordeal that she walked right into a very solid, very short woman. Mahariel reached out to steady her before she could fall. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she groaned. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," the elf inclined her head. "Distracted, your majesty?"

"No, no," she sighed, "just aggravated."

"Ah, the Orlesians have made a move, then. The Divine is desperately trying to avoid a war. She's sent a letter, hasn't she?"

Confused, Hawke nodded. "Just this morning. How did you know?"

A secret shining in her glossy eyes, she gave a tight smile. Everything about her was controlled and strained, as if she was holding back. Immediately it reminded her of the Dalish outside Kirkwall, their cold manner toward her. Surely Mahariel didn't suffer from a hatred of humans still after being among them for so long? "Zevran has more eyes and ears than you can imagine and a keen mind when he wants to use it. He and I have put our heads together, and we have a good idea how this will play out."

"Would you mind sharing it with me?"

"That I can't do," she answered. "If I tell you how this will work, how do I know you won't change the game?"

_All __a __game. __It__'__s __all __a __game __to __them._

Hawke pushed Anders's voice out of her head, too annoyed to deal with his ghost at the moment. "Left to figure it out by myself, then?"

"Things will work out," Mahariel frowned thoughtfully. "No matter how dark the dawn seems."

Ready to move on, maybe take a nap in the early morning sun, Hawke tried to move past her. The elf's spidery fingers caught her around the arm. "There is a matter we need to discuss," she said cryptically, jerking her head toward an alcove in the hallway. Glancing around, Hawke nodded and followed her into what appeared to be a spare bedroom. At a word from Mahariel, the maid making up the monstrous bed left swiftly.

Hawke flopped into a cushy chair, crossing her legs. Before heading down to breakfast, she'd changed out of her white tunic and informal pants and put on a silk slip and red, cotton dress dug out of the abyssal closet in her and Alistair's room. The cloak around her shoulders was heavy red velvet with gold trimmed fur at the bottom and at the end of her sleeves. It spilled over her thighs and down the length of the chair. The slippers on her feet gleamed and added a novel shine to the entire outfit.

"Zevran and I are leaving the castle tonight," Mahariel said, taking a seat opposite her on the foot of the bed. "I can't tell you why, but I do want you to be aware."

"Does Alistair know?"

"You do, and that's enough. Tell him goodbye for me."

Hawke sighed. "You're doing something dangerous, aren't you? And you're taking Bethany?"

After a slight moment of hesitation, Mahariel nodded. "Not exceedingly dangerous, but Bethany is a skilled fighter. What we're doing…there may be opposition."

"Very well," the queen sat forward, clasping her hands together. "Thank you for telling me."

When Mahariel left, there was a distinct absence in the room. Hawke didn't feel like moving just yet. Fear for Bethany was pulling at her mind already, but there was nothing she could do. When she'd allowed Bethany to go to ground, to hide from the Templars, she'd known that there would be dangers. Bethany was very skilled because of their father, and that sort of skill was invaluable to Mahariel when so many of the mages wanting to fight couldn't even create a simple ward.

Faintly she wondered where Fenris was. She hadn't seen him all morning, but she wasn't concerned. Back home he was in charge of her guard, and it wouldn't surprise her to learn that he was trying to take the reins here in Ferelden either. There was a power in ordering about a bunch of humans in armor that drew him. Who was she to deny him that happiness?

She thought about writing back to Aveline and Varric and Isabela, but she cast the idea away. No, she was going to spend the day with Alistair instead of knocking about with her friends.

Then she remembered why she was alone in a spare bedroom in the first place and put her head in her hands. Why did she have to be so stubborn? Why did Eamon have to be such a coward? For the love of the Maker, how hard was it to start a war? Men had been cutting each other's throats since the beginning of time over the most ridiculous of reasons. Yet a stray mage blows up a chantry, kills a Grand Cleric and all of her followers, declares holy war on all Templars, and they end up in a stalemate?

"Andraste's breath," she exclaimed, sinking back into the cushions. The Underground destroyed compounds full of Templars every day. Templars ran mages through just for walking along the road. What did it take to push the war into a full-scale onslaught?

Angry all over again—and solemn to boot—Hawke launched herself out of the chair and began the long walk toward her room. Varric would listen to her whining. He'd have to or be forced to burn the letter. Maybe she could get Sebastian and Isabela to apply a little pressure…

For an hour she wrote furiously at a desk in the library, complaining as much as she possibly could before stamping the hot wax with her ring and sending the letters with Marni to be sent off. She was casually searching the bookcases when Alistair appeared dressed in a dark blue shirt with black pants.

"Sorry about Eamon," he blurted immediately.

"No, I'm sorry," she sighed, meeting his elusive gaze. "I lost my temper. You can come closer; I won't bite."

"You're really passionate about this, aren't you?"

She fought the unladylike temptation to snort. "My sister is a mage, Alistair. So was my father. I spent a lifetime protecting them. Both of them. And Anders…um," she felt a distinct pain in her chest, "a good friend of mine died for this cause. I'm not going to let that be in vain."

"I had a mage friend once," he said. "Wynne—you might have heard of her. She helped us defeat the Blight."

If she thought about it, there had been mention in the tales of a wizened mage at their side. What had Anders said? _The __Blight __was__defeated __with __the __aid __of __two __mages, __one __of __them __an __apostate._

"Right," nodded Hawke.

"She died a few years back. Heart complications," he explained sadly, appearing at her side to shuffle through the books. "She never thought badly of the Circle. She always spoke so fondly of it."

So had many others before enlightenment came, before they had their first breath of fresh air, felt raindrops on their skin. Hawke had always found it intriguing that interpretations could be so drastically different. One mage thought the Circle a blessing, somewhere to be safe and learn. People like Anders felt it was an oppressive cage, one he would do anything to escape.

Anything.

"Anders acted as though it was the Void itself," she said solemnly, pushing back her emotions. "Bethany was more logical about it all. She thought of it as an opportunity to learn more about where magic comes from. Learn from professionals that weren't apostates like my father, but the Circle was a prison. Make no mistake."

"I heard stories about Kirkwall."

"Everyone has."

"The circumstances those mages lived in was unacceptable, Hawke," Alistair pressed seriously. "And the Divine ordering a raze on Kirkwall because they rebelled? Unforgiveable."

She stared at him curiously, wondering what his point was. "And?"

He swallowed, suddenly nervous. How fine he looked in the dark blue and black. "I…agree with you."

Hawke's smile was beatific. An automatic response at the joy blooming in her heart. So there would be no opposition from her other half. Eamon would go unheard, and the war would take place. It seemed a huge hurtle. Anders would get his fight after all, and her father might be avenged. Bethany might one day be able to walk free, her magic no longer a hated blemish meant to be hidden.

_Your __girls __are __causing __trouble __again, __Father, _she thought.

He moved a little closer then, and the light caught his hair. Strand of spun copper and gold, a bizarre yet enticing mixture. Clean features. Handsome bones. A living, beating heart with the capacity for love. She couldn't help the pure bolt of attraction that shot through her, the gratitude welling inside of her. Hooking an arm around his neck, she pressed her cool lips to his.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh, Anders, you can't stay quiet even when you're dead? Thanks for reading. Review if you want more. <strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: It's Almost Easy**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair**

**A/N: Thanks for Reading**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 6<span>

"I'm worried, Zev," Mahariel said, arms crossed as she stared out the window. Her silver armor gleamed red in the low firelight, dark and menacing. The flames cast a mass of writhing shadows across her face, eyes iridescent and nearly golden. Light green and black tattoos disappeared as she tugged on her gauntlets, snapping the straps in place.

Zevran lounged on the settee, stretched out like a cat warming itself in the sun. His golden skin was a great contrast to the pale, washed out color of his lover's. A purely lackadaisical attitude seeped from his very being. He was dressed in his traveling leathers, made of pure dragon skin and hardened by magic.

"Oh?" he rolled his eyes toward her, stretching languidly. "Why is that, _mi __amore_?"

"Hawke and Alistair," she leaned her shoulder into the window sill, watching him carefully, "are not intimate."

"Ha!" he laughed. "I am teaching you, after all. Well spotted."

Mahariel didn't find it amusing and glared at him. "This is a _concern_."

"No, it isn't," he argued, springing to his feet to curl his hands tightly around her hips and back her into the wall. She leaned as far away as she could, stiff and uneasy in his grip even after so many years. "Hawke is a fine woman, a temptress of the highest caliber. Our Alistair is focused on meetings and such at the moment, but I would wager that in the confines of their room, he's having difficulty sleeping."

Zevran pressed a hot kiss to her jaw, thumbs digging beneath the steel carapace of her armor. "Is this male intuition? Or do you have proof?" Her voice was steady; it took a lot to make her melt. One of the reasons her loved her so.

"I do," he whispered in her ear. "Alistair is gone when she wakes up in the morning. My guess is that he's gone to take care of a problem that only pops up when we men are holding beautiful women in our arms."

"Spare me Alistair's bodily functions," she wrinkled her nose in disgust. "You watch them with far too much relish."

"I'm a voyeur," he bit at her lobe. "And you asked for proof."

"That is hardly proof," she frowned. "In my experience, virgins can get it up for _anything_. Now stop this nonsense." But Zevran wasn't budging despite how rigid she was under his ministrations, and when he tightened his grip on her hips until the feeling bordered on painful, she realized that he wasn't going to.

Once Zevran latched onto her, it was difficult to peel him away. One would think at his age, his passion for copulation would have died down, but he was just as voracious as ever. Luckily the darkspawn blood and living with an Antivan whore had changed her prudish ways, and she could match his taste evenly when it didn't interfere with their goals. But they weren't meeting with the Underground for hours yet, so she resigned herself to the fate he had in mind, relaxing into his arms and pressing her lips lovingly against the design on his cheek.

Mahariel disliked the sound of their armor scraping, and it wasn't long before she began picking at his buckles and straps in earnest. If left to him, the entire affair would last all night. He prided himself on how long it took, but she was weary already and the night would be taxing. A short tryst in the corner would lighten her mood, and it most definitely would Zevran's.

By the time it was over, she was panting for breath and desperately trying to pat her hair back into place. Somehow a short coupling against the wall had turned into a wrestling match on the bed, then on the floor, and finally he took her against the fireplace, as sweet and slow as he possibly could, drowning her with kisses, smothering her with affection. Hard leather and silver glinted on the floor, and she plucked her share of armor with a flustered look about her. Zevran watched from the bed, stark naked and completely unashamed.

"Is it a sin that I pride myself on getting you out of sorts?" he wondered aloud.

"Get dressed," she snapped with a flush, throwing his bracers at him, which he expertly snatched from the air. "You're insufferable."

Slinking from the bed, he caught her around the waist and pressed a kiss to her protesting mouth. Only when she stopped squirming did he cease. "Say it, _mi __amore_," he demanded against her lips, sultry and low.

"I love you, okay?" she sighed and smoothed back his flaxen hair. The fire cast his tan skin aglow, shining with a thin sheen of sweat. That old smile, the smell of leather and herbs, and a tender helplessness in his eyes: she loved it all. Zevran was the only person besides Tamlen that had ever made her heart flutter, and he continued to do so day after day. "Get dressed, you brat."

He danced out of the way of her playful smack, and moments later he was dressed. They headed down the hallway and past the guards who barely glanced at Mahariel anymore. She sneaked out of the castle so often that they had fallen into a state of pure apathy. When the pair reached the castle gates, Zevran flicked two bits of metal together and sparks burst against a torch she'd snatched from the outer wall. The fire came to life, burning vermillion in the blackness. At its wave, the gate opened, and they stalked off into the night.

One would think that in a haven for mages there would be people with magic walking the streets, but that wasn't the truth. Just because the leaders thought that every man, woman, and child regardless of magic should have the right to live a free life didn't mean that the people under their command did. Guards bullied refugees from the Circle in broad daylight. Rape and murder was abound, the innocent left in gutters for days on end before anyone reported it. Alistair's men were dirty—filthy, actually—and the men he tried to replace them with were even worse.

Even before the war began, Mahariel had been leading mages from the towers for years. When Anders burned the chantry, she started popping up in hideaways and abandoned houses where mages were said to dwell, beckoning them to a safe place _beneath _the blood-stained and disorderly streets. She pulled on her dwarven contacts and built a city below Denerim, under the reeking and sludge-filled sewers where only the desperate or the depraved would set foot. She posted men she trusted at the entrances and protected it herself as if her own children were on the line. Maybe they were.

A dilapidated house on the outskirts of Denerim provided the entrance, deep in the basement beyond the cobwebs and broken furniture to a slick ladder beneath a trapdoor. The tunnels went on for miles in many directions, but Mahariel knew the way. She and Zevran ducked behind the ladder they had to climb down and followed a tunnel that turned sharply to the left. Eventually, the nauseating smell of human waste bled away into a metallic tang that filled the air, the earthy scent of stone and the heat of a forge.

If one was lucky enough to find a contact to lead them into the hideaway, they would come to a door guarded by two well-armed men. How many years had it taken to perfect the system, to weed out the traitors? The humans nodded respectfully at her as she approached.

The haven was a singular house of stone, much like the noble homes of Orzammar, and fit no less than fifty mage refugees at a time, plus the guards. Beds were set up side by side on the upper levels while showers and hospitals were located below. The middle floor was the recreation room where children played with the used toys Mahariel occasionally brought them, and the adults could walk around freely.

Not everything was perfect, though. Space was tight; tensions rose at times, and the guards couldn't always keep order. When an abomination was discovered among the ranks, events escalated out of control. The entire system could be rattled by a single bloodmage, and Mahariel and Zevran were vigilant enough to catch those that tried to turn to forbidden magic. Another problem was food. Sneaking out pounds and pounds of meat or vegetables from the castle was not only impossible but impractical. Meat spoiled. The heat caused vegetables to wilt. Fruit rotted.

Some of the mages they brought in were wounded, and supplies were short. Bethany had become the leader of the medics in Anders' s absence, before he left Mahariel's side to find his own way.

A gap-toothed girl with bright red hair caught sight of Mahariel at the door and rushed toward her, hugging her about the waist with vigor. The movement captured the attention of the other children, as well, and they bombarded Zevran with their little arms and legs, seeking hugs from the charming Antivan with a penchant for bringing sweet candies.

"Ho, ho! I win the contest again, lover," he chuckled, hefting a young boy onto his hip as the others clung to his legs, chattering excitedly as they picked his pockets.

Mahariel smiled at the red-head that had hugged her. "You are a cheat, plying them with sweets," she said without looking at him. The girl left to tug on Zevran's arm playfully. The high-pitched noise of their yelling and exclamations created quite an echo in the small space.

"Zev, you're back!"

"Tell us a story!"

"Did you bring-?"

"How many bandits did you kill this time?"

"Hannah _pinched _me yesterday."

"Griffin, get _off._"

As he dealt with the children, Mahariel walked among the adult elves and humans crushed against the walls, speaking to one another in hushed voices. A couple came toward her with their hands clasped, bowing low before ducking away. Nathaniel Howe was leaning against the far wall in the darkness near a steam vent. Catching her eye, he jerked his head toward the stairway. She followed.

"What is it, Nathaniel?"

"Shortage of medicine," he replied gruffly, bluntly. "Brought in a girl the other day from the alleys near the Alienage. Bad cuts and burns. Kid with pneumonia. Old woman with the wasting sickness. We need more healers, Warden-Commander."

Mahariel gave a frustrated growl and crossed her arms. "Isn't exactly a plethora of those wandering about right now. Attack and defensive magic is much more useful than healing."

"Not in our case."

"I'll deal with it," the Warden said. "I'll see if any of the other compounds have healers to spare, but my guess is that they need what they have. Just keep them comfortable. If you have to, do what's necessary to end their suffering."

One wouldn't have to know Nathaniel well to see the distaste in his eyes at the very thought. These people had become his people, just as they had become hers. He inclined his head and went back to watching the hall. Mahariel glanced back to Zevran who had the boy on his knee, hands held up as he twirled something between his deft fingers—no doubt doing a 'magic' trick to dazzle them—before descending the small, winding staircase to the medical bay located further down.

The sickening, cloying scent of disinfectant and blood filled the air. It was swelteringly hot, and Mahariel instantly wished she didn't have to visit the makeshift hospital the second she reached the bottom of the stairway.

A dozen or so people were laid out on blood-stained pallets on the floor. Moans and the sound of raspy breathing rose and echoed in the spacious underground as she tried not to step on any toes or hands. They were just a ragged bunch of invalids sleeping on the floor; the sight made her feel like a fist was closing around her heart.

"Mahariel," called a soft soprano voice—a familiar one that lacked the self-confidence and bossy attitude of her sister. The mage was leaning over a young woman with a wet cough on a stone table. She whispered something in the girl's ear, and the stranger left quietly. Bethany tried to smile, but it was weak and pathetic. Exhaustion ringed her dull eyes. She was too thin, sickly herself. "Zevran said you weren't coming back for a while."

"I had planned to guide Hawke and Alistair through their awkward courtship—at least Alistair, but your sister has more charm and cunning than I thought. Before the year is out, she will have won his heart," Mahariel tapped her fingers against the stone. "In the meantime, I hope to declare open war with Orlais."

"More war," the mage said distantly.

"It's the only way," Mahariel shrugged.

A heartbeat of silence passed between them.

"How is my sister?"

"Adjusting well," the elf answered truthfully. "That man, Fenris, is by her side night and day."

"He would be," Bethany said with a secret smile. "They're the best of friends, those two. No one can separate them."

"Hmm."

"So why are you here? Shouldn't you be writing the empress?" The Hawke inquired. "Not that I'm not grateful. The kids love Zevran. He's good for them."

"An assassin is rarely good for anyone," remarked the elf darkly, "but you're right to ask me why I'm here." She leaned in close, checking to see if anyone was nearby before whispering, "There are more of them."

Bethany's eyes widened. "That's two groups in the last week!" she murmured sharply. "This can't be picking up speed."

"It is, and it's just as I feared," Mahariel appeared incredibly annoyed, her small mouth downturned into an ugly and fierce expression. "Damn that man for ever leaving my side. Damn him to the Beyond and back or the Void or wherever it is you humans go. He will condemn his own people."

"You need me?" Bethany asked.

"I do. You, Zevran, and I will take care of them. It's too dangerous to go by ourselves; we need a healer."

The human turned and plucked her staff from the wall behind and spun it about a few times before hooking it into the leather pouch on her back. Her eyes burned with the same daring, the same passion Mahariel had seen in Hawke's eyes. It was reason she chose her to lead, why the elf selected such a woman to marry one of the best men she'd ever met. "I'm yours."

* * *

><p>Gabrielle was only eight years old when she found out she was a mage. One minute she was sitting by her mama sewing a new dress for a woman set to be wed, and the next morning she was on her way to the Circle for setting the gown on fire in anger because the stitching was askew. She didn't know what the Circle was or why she had to go, but judging by the way her mother sobbed when the armored men came, it wasn't a very nice place at all.<p>

It turned out to be not so bad for a while, when everything was novel and learning how to cast spells was an invigorating experience. But as her knowledge grew, she began to see the walls around her as a prison. She missed the smell of her mama's perfume and the feel of the wind on her face. The halls were wide and tall but couldn't compete with the infinite capacity of the sky. People spoke of treachery. Other mages whispered of an elf that came to collect those that would swear fealty to the king and The Cause.

Only a week after a Templar broke her nose for trying to escape did she become a part of the Underground.

The elf they spoke of was everything she could have dreamed: strong, silent, relentless, powerful, a leader that could set them all free. She followed without a word, crept along the dark passages out of the Tower, swam her way to the freedom she so desperately craved. When it started raining, she thought about her mama and how proud she would be that Gabrielle had escaped.

She went to see her mama first thing, but the woman she had left behind was a shrunken old crow with gnarled fingers and a yellow smile. A pipe lay on the table when she entered, empty wine bottles spilling foul-smelling liquid all over the floor. When she tried to explain and tidy the place up—she couldn't look at her mama in such a state, _wouldn__'__t__—_the harpy launched herself from her chair and cut a clean line across her own daughter's face with a pair of sewing scissors.

That was how she got the scar running from the middle of her upper lip to the lobe of her left ear.

Given how she had been treated, she didn't think it entirely cruel when she burned the house to the ground while her mother was sleeping that very same night, blood dripping from her mouth, a madness in her almond-shaped eyes.

Not only was she an apostate, she was a criminal. The pain of her mother's betrayal and hatred struck deep, and Gabrielle killed the bounty hunters sent after her not only out of defense of herself but out of malice and pure sadism. The young she butchered horribly and left in pigpens to be eaten alive, their insides spilling out onto the ground, intestines slithering like snakes. The old and experienced she barely escaped and killed them quickly so she could hide and lick her wounds.

The years of isolation and fear changed her, and she was no longer the scared little girl heading off to the Tower. Her hands became calloused from hard labor, muscles developing into a mass of hard fibers and sinew. She was strong and fast and knew more spells than the tower could teach, even a bit of blood magic. When she was slinking around Amaranthine, she found a swarthy gentleman with a ruggedly handsome face beckoning to her from atop the Crowned Lion's staircase, and she went against all her instincts to follow.

His name was Craven, and he was part of cult interested in the details of a man who had started a rebellion—a rebellion she hadn't known existed. She sat on his bed drinking sweet wine while he explained what had happened since she'd been wandering. A mage had blown up a chantry. The Divine was calling for a sacking of Kirkwall, a town in the free marches. Apparently the leader was giving Her Holiness a hard time about the entire thing because her sister happened to be a mage.

In her absence, the Underground had expanded into a series of real safe havens hidden under major cities, lead by a sleek assassin named Zevran and the Hero of Ferelden. Circles were rebelling all over. Templars were on the run, hunting mages by themselves without any direction from the Divine or Orlais. The non-mages were afraid. Everyone was picking a side. Events were spiraling out of control, and she looked both violent and clever. Could she kill non-mages in an effort to win the coming war? Did she want to join them?

It had been so long since she'd had an ounce of human warmth or companionship that she answered him with her lips, crushing him to her and sinking against him on the bed. She'd keep him company as his lover for a long time. Long enough for the mages to learn the name of the man who was killed by his own friend for setting them all free: Anders. Long enough to pick up six or seven more followers and sail to Ferelden. Long enough to establish a hideaway just south of Denerim. Long enough to watch the future queen in her pretty wedding dress descend the carriage steps on her way to be married. The gown was much like the one she'd sewn so long ago, and it made her fingers itch violently.

Luckily Craven was there to hold her hand.

On a windy night just two days after the fabulous wedding at the castle, she was singing in a low and grave voice a chant with her brothers and sisters. They were kneeling on moldy cushions stolen from various houses with lit candles in their hands. At the front of the room was Craven, raising his hands as he rocked powerfully to the rhythm they created. Blood ran in rivulets down his wrists. Both children's skulls were caked with gore still from earlier that night, glistening slickly in the firelight. The wind whistled wildly through the cracks in the old black wood and threatened to douse the candles.

But they would not go out, they would not shrink back, they would not be silenced. The flames burned on, writhing in pain but refusing to give in. She recognized a metaphor somewhere; Craven had explained it once. She was too wrapped up in the moment to think just then, lost in the power of his voice, lost in the mournful sound of their song. Craven's blood dripped on the floor, black in the dim light. Her brothers and sisters removed their hoods, and she did the same.

Just then there was a terrible racket upstairs. Their voices only rose, and Gabrielle thought she might have imagined it. Every hair stood up on the back of her neck. Her magic whispered dangerously in her ear, a warning. She mouthed the words but strained to hear, the draw of the ritual broken. Her legs felt suddenly numb, and she wondered where her dagger was.

Babette was sitting just beside her. She had red hair, wispy and short. Her face was sallow, freckled, and thin. Before the cult, she'd lost two sons to the Tower. Both were run through for trying to escape one evening. Gabrielle thought she heard a scuffling upstairs again, but before she could mention anything, Babette's chest exploded in a shower of red.

Warm blood sprayed across her face, and she dropped her candle in shock. Somewhere, distantly, there were screams. The others were scrambling away, but she was staring at Babette's face. Her mouth was open in a silent shriek, crimson leaking from the corners. Her pale blue eyes were empty, faded. A shining silver dagger protruded dangerously from her chest, and it retracted as the screaming around her increased.

She was vaguely aware of lightning spells being cast as she jumped to her feet and ran to Craven's side. Not the safest idea because the enemy was blocking the stairwell.

A man and two women, two elves and a human, or a mage and two non-mages. The one with the staff—the one _just __like __them_—stared at the pile of glistening bones on the ground sprinkled with ashes and turned green. The dark-skinned male wiped off his blade with clean precision, inspecting the end. Neither one seemed overly important to Gabrielle. It was the elf in the middle that drew her attention.

She was spritely, though clearly older than she looked. Darkness rimmed her eyes, and what eyes they were! Cruel, cold, and merciless. She exuded dominance and pure hatred as she glared at them, not sparing a glance at the dead children's bones. Non-mages, didn't she see? Who was she to pass judgment upon them?

"Who are you?" Craven demanded, and all of them started in fear.

"Your death," replied the female elf sharply. "Your killing ends here."

"We do this in the name of our Savior," snapped the youngest, a girl half Gabrielle's age. She was trembling with fear.

"He would die inside knowing that what he did has brought you to this," whispered the mage sadly. "He just wanted you to be free."

"He gave us the message that we must fight the non-mages to be free," Craven spat bravely. "How better than to kill their children? To destroy them before they can become the hateful bastards—" a blade, faster than anything she had ever seen, buried itself in his throat before he could finish speaking, and Gabrielle couldn't help the shriek of pure despair that escaped her throat.

She caught him as he fell, his legs buckling. Her arms were full of his warmth, his life as they sank to the floor. Blood spilled out in a gush, darkening her black robes and hands. Tears sprang to her eyes. "Craven, no!"

"Oh, so melodramatic," the dark-skinned male mocked. "Must we listen to them speak, _mi __amore_? Can we not just execute them outright?"

Gabrielle watched in agony as Craven passed away. His throat was too ruined to speak, his mind panicking with the thought of death. He could spare no thought to her as his eyes rolled up in his head, and the spasms ceased. The other members were shaking, eyes darting about to find an exit. There was none. The only way out was through the people blocking the doorway. The ones that had murdered Craven in sheer spite.

Very slowly, she pushed down her emotions. The knife in his throat was warped in her sight, offering little resistance as she extracted it from his throat and stood up. As they argued amongst themselves, she cut the sleeve of her robe until her forearm was showing. The mage raised her staff in awareness, probably knowing what she was going to do.

"To the Void with you, Blasphemers!" she screamed, using the dagger to slice through the supple flesh of her wrist and arm, nearly severing her hand in the process. She gathered all the mad energy flowing through her veins, drawing in the blood, and threw the energy full force at them.

The members of the cult scattered as she hoped they would.

Pain ripped through her as surely as any deathblow would. It was in her fingertips, tingling in her toes, and destroying her cells as she bled them dry to keep the blast of energy going. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut; she couldn't see. Distantly she heard screaming and hoped it was the elven male's. How dare he destroy all that they had created?

How dare he kill Craven?

Finally Gabrielle's body could take no more; she collapsed to the ground, landing on her injured wrist and wailing in pain. Just as she was feeling dizzy and sleepy, she felt a sharp kick to the stomach and rolled on her back. The stench of blood was pungent. Her fingers were useless to her, refusing to move even as she tried. In cutting her arm, she'd severed the main tendon. She would be crippled if she lived.

"One left, _mi __amore_," noted the male in his slow drawl, and she blinked through a curtain of her hair up at him. A moan of pain left her parted lips as he put pressure on her sternum, his boot heavy and hard.

"Stand her up."

He did not appear very pleased with having to touch her, but nevertheless he hefted her into a standing position. The entire world spun on its axis, and she felt nausea rise in her throat. If she was standing, and she couldn't quite tell, it was entirely due to Craven's murderer. She couldn't feel her legs. She knew she was trembling. With fear or exertion was anyone's guess.

Cold fingers touched her face, turning her head from side to side. Calming mana pulsed in the background. Not hers. The other mage's. The only one left alive.

"I know her," the female elf frowned. "I brought her from the tower after the Blight."

Suddenly it all clicked into place. The woman that had led them from their chains in the Circle was standing just before her, much better off. A monstrous hero. A vicious messiah. "Mahariel," she hissed through bloodied teeth.

"Gabrielle, wasn't it?"

"Kill her and be done with it, Mahariel," said the man. "She's half-dead anyway."

Gabrielle hung her head, because she knew it was true. Too much blood loss. Too much pain. How could she carry on without Craven? It didn't seem possible, not waking up to his face every morning, not kissing his lips every night when they went to sleep. How could she continue on without the solid beat of his hear thrumming beneath her fingers as she dreamed?

A sigh and the metallic hiss of a blade unsheathed. Frost pervading the air, unfriendly. Beautiful stars bursting before her eyes. The pop of flesh as the blade entered tender skin, tearing through tendons and cracking her ribs as it drove right through to her heart. The tip touched the pulsating organ and interrupted the slow electrical signals. Blood gushed from the wounded area, the body desperate to save the soul, to save the one thing it couldn't live without.

Too late. Not enough blood left in her to cleanse the area. Not enough cells to pack the wound.

She slumped to the ground, the memory of a beautifully embroidered wedding gown at the forefront of her mind.

Death.

* * *

><p>Sometime afterwards as Zevran was piling the bodies in the middle of the room with Bethany dousing the area with wine to set it on fire, Mahariel was poking among the bones. Four or five of the skulls were so small they had to belong to infants no older than a few months. They were soft and malleable. The others were from children probably ranging from six to nine years based on the sizes. The lesser folk of Denerim had been complaining of their children disappearing. At least she could put an end to the mystery, leaving out the vicious cult part, of course.<p>

She gathered them together and stacked them in with the bodies, prepared to burn it all when a picture frame caught her eye. Pure silver, it was the only item in the room not filthy with blood or decay. Zevran stared at her curiously, but she held up a hand to silence him before he could ask. She plucked the picture frame from the ground; it must have been knocked over in the fighting.

Neat and looping writing covered the entire page, and at the bottom was a signature she could never mistake.

Another copy of Anders's manifesto; they found one at every cult site they came across.

"Anders," she whispered in despair, rubbing her thumb across the parchment, "look what you have done."

* * *

><p><strong>Anders, dear, would you butt out, please? This story is about Hawke and Alistair. Thanks for reading. Review if you want more. <strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: It's Almost Easy**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair**

**A/N: Thanks for Reading**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 7<span>

Hawke peered over the edge of her book at Alistair and heaved a sigh. Sunlight filtered through the windows, showing promise of a bright and pleasant day as it spilled over her bare feet and legs. Wind blew sleepily through the study, occasionally ruffling a lock of the king's hair and turning a page in one of the open books to his side. With it came the sound of clashing swords and the alluring scent of earth as it beckoned to her.

Yet she was stuck inside, staring at empty words on a page she'd read a hundred times over and still could not memorize. Her coronation ceremony was to be scheduled early by Mahariel's request—a sweet parting gift before she took off for days on end to shift goods in the Underground—and Hawke had only another two days to memorize the acceptance speech written for her by tradition. Once she was queen, the real work would begin, and she had to spend the next two days preparing instead of playing.

Meanwhile Alistair was writing diligently at his desk, content with the smell of parchment and ink, or so it appeared. He was spending an awful lot of time in the library, probably because she preferred to be outside. After their kiss, he was even more distant and easily flustered, though he did seem to be acclimating to her presence when she wasn't blatantly trying to seduce him. He didn't start when they met at corners anymore, for instance. He wasn't a rigid board when she climbed into bed and wrapped her arms around him. For her own sanity, and the sake of optimism, she called it progress.

Fenris was sitting in a plush chair, relaxing for once. His sword was leaning against the side of a bookcase nearby, and his eyes ran slowly over the thick book open on his lap. Hawke caught him glancing at it in a shop in Denerim, and she bought it in an instant. Never did he ask for luxury items, even if he was the only person she knew that would call a book luxury, and she believed he deserved a gift once in a while like any other person.

"Oh," Hawke stretched, wiggling her toes.

"Quit squirming, Hawke," barked Fenris without sparing her a glance. "The quicker you learn that, the sooner you can resume running about in the yard with the rest of us."

Alistair glanced up, pausing in his writing.

"Don't lecture me," she glared. "I'm sitting here, aren't I?"

Very deliberately, he put a finger down on the left page to hold his place and met her eyes. His gaze was filled with both skepticism and mild amusement. "Just. Read."

"I bloody am!" she waved the book about, smacking it down on her thighs. "I've been reading for the last few hours. I'm _bored_."

"Hawke, you can leave if you want," offered Alistair gently. He seemed almost delighted by the idea; no doubt her wriggling was disturbing his work. "No one's keeping you here."

The fact that it had taken her so long to realize that no one _was_keeping her there was mildly embarrassing, but it passed quickly in the face of her new freedom. She snatched up her slippers and pulled them on her feet, chucking the book onto Alistair's desk. "See you, boys, then. Have fun studying." With a gloating smile at Fenris, she ducked out the door and hurried toward her quarters.

In the time that she'd been in the castle, she'd learned the way well. Even the guards were overcome by her charm and smiled and ducked their heads in respect as she passed. Being as flirtatious as she often was, she may have let her fingers drag across the upper arm of the man standing outside her door, but she would never admit it if asked.

Hawke tossed her nightgown over her head and tugged on a green tunic and cotton pants. A trip to the Denerim market had yielded plenty of manly outfits for her to strut about the castle in. Marni had lingered in the background, recommending silver jewelry meant to adorn hair and finely-made gowns that were too pretty for anyone, even a queen. Hawke did give in and buy a few dozen nightgowns and feathery cloaks to wear around the castle in the early mornings, along with slippers and a proper band to keep the hair out of her face.

A tentative knock on the door alerted her to Marni's presence, and she let the maid in with an amiable smile. "Have fun in the kitchen?"

"Yes, my lady," Marni bowed, laying a pile of fresh linens on the bed. After Mahariel left, it became apparent that a little romance was not amiss in the castle. Her maid was fond of the human in the kitchen, Bernard, and she often spent her time helping him when her other duties were completed. Because Hawke understood the importance of nourishing young love, she dismissed Marni as much as possible. She told herself that the race difference was insignificant; they were both servants, and it could work out.

Maybe she was deluding herself.

"Where are you headed, my lady?" the elf asked suspiciously.

"No idea," Hawke answered honestly, "but somewhere away from the study."

Legitimate work did not bother Hawke. In fact, she rather enjoyed becoming lost in her books at the Keep and often wrote until her hands cramped and her fingers were stained with ink. Maker, she _lived_in her office for weeks on end. But memorizing that speech was a tedious assignment, and Hawke, no matter what was on her plate as Viscountess, did not ignore a sunny day in favor of bits of parchment. Well, unless it was an emergency.

"Without your guard?" Marni wondered as she smoothed out the linens on Hawke and Alistair's bare mattress.

"He's reading," she explained, reaching out to help tuck the corners in. "Along with fighting and hunting slavers, it's his favorite hobby. And it's so nice to see him, well, _enjoying_himself without me that I never have the heart to pull him away from it."

A blush appeared at the tops of the elf's cheeks. "One of the cooks was talking about him today. Saying the most lewd things! I think she _fancies_him." She spoke in a quick whisper, as if the very thought was outrageous.

Hawke paused at the corner and stared. "Really? Is she an elf or...?"

"Oh, yes, she's an elf," Marni huffed. "Quite the elf indeed! Always staring at herself in the mirror while the rest of us work. Bernard says...well, nevermind."

"No, no," Hawke implored, "do tell. I'm not one for gossip, but I've never even seen a normal woman that wasn't frightened to death of Fenris."

The fact that she was gossiping, and speaking about another employee, seemed to dawn on her, and Marni retreated immediately. "N-no, don't mind me. I'm just, I'm telling tales. You, um, should go outside for a while, your majesty. It's an awfully nice day."

And no matter how much Hawke prodded and poked at her, Marni wouldn't say another word about it.

* * *

><p>"Hawke wants open warfare," Alistair explained plainly to his uncle, signing the parchment in front of him with a distracted flourish of his arm, "and I'm...well, I agree. Sort of."<p>

"Alistair, we aren't ready for that," Eamon said with some exasperation. "We're still recuperating from the Blight, ten years in the past! You have no proper general, no war-trained men, nor do you even have a queen at your side."

"Mahariel is my general," the king said with some bite. All the work piling up on his desk was making him irritable, and he didn't much like when Eamon hounded him about his decisions all the time. Mahariel was very efficient at picking apart his plans without his uncle's help. "Hawke is my queen, and the men have all been trained as guards, which is enough training for anyone. I'm not new to starting wars, Eamon. Our ragtag group during the Blight started one just fine."

Eamon swiftly took a seat on the chair in front of the desk and slammed his palm sideways on the wood to emphasize both his agitation and his point. "Starting a war is not the problem, boy. Wars are began over the simplest of things; winning is what is difficult."

"Something they also did during the Blight, Eamon," said Teagan from his position near the window where the light shone in on his handsome face. "Hawke is not easily-deterred, and Alistair would be better off taking his chance with the war." The easy tone to his voice had not faded over time, and its familiarity made Alistair smile to himself more than the joke about his wife's temperment.

Eamon still appeared quite sour and glared over the king's shoulder as he spoke. "Alistair, my boy, I realize that Hawke is very beautiful—what man wouldn't—and known for her coercion, but you can't let-"

"Hawke is not coercing anyone," came a solemn but hard tone from the door, and Alistair released the hard grip on his quill to glance curiously at Fenris. He was shadowed in the doorway, a grim expression on his stern features. The weapon across his back glittered with the whisper of enchantments and power, and the markings etched deep in his skin were almost aglow.

"Fenris," Teagan was the first to speak, amiable as always, "he did not mean it in a derogatory way."

"No matter," the elf said sternly. "Hawke did not manipulate him."

Slightly afraid of an altercation between Eamon and the guard—he wasn't quite sure of Fenris's personality, only that he seemed volatile and played the watchful and devoted protector a little _too _well—Alistair cleared his throat. "It's true, Uncle," Alistair said gently. "Even if she is, er, beautiful, that isn't why I agree."

"Then why_ do _you agree?" pressed Eamon, wary of turning his back to the door where the bodyguard still lurked. "Why would you agree to such a foolhardy thing? Is it the Dalish elf that's pushing you to do this?"

An image of Wynne filled his mind, thin and frail and sickly. In her dying throes. He'd held the mage's hand, Mahariel's solemn face on the other side of the bed, clinging too tightly to both him and Wynne. Greagoir spoke over the bed, commended another mage's soul to the Maker when it was over. Alistair, for only the second time since he'd met her, thought he saw a wetness upon the Dalish elf's cheeks.

He'd found her later at the top of the tower, staring out the window with liquid eyes, the moon pouring over her flawless skin. Zevran was in Antiva, probably involved in some massive orgy when his lover needed him the most. Alistair had never felt so sickened and took a seat beside her. "To live and die in this place," she had whispered when he finally situated himself, "child stolen after its birth, hope crushed, heart given to an invisible human in the sky...this is a fate worse than death."

Alistair's mind drifted to the sadness that played in Wynne's eyes when she spoke of the baby the Tower took from her. He thought of all the frightened and innocent faces doomed to be put to death because the Templars deemed it necessary, the cold defiance and utter hatred that Morrigan directed toward anyone who thought her better off caged, and mostly of a chilled and thin woman appearing from the shadows to hold her gorgeous sister tight in her arms, so afraid as she clung desperately but bravely to hope.

"Because of the mages," he answered finally, staring at the glistening ink before him. "Because Hawke's sister's a mage, and one of my best friends was one, and because they deserve to be free."

Eamon sputtered angrily, no doubt ready to explain that a compromise could _potentially _free the mages nevertheless, but Alistair felt the sudden urge to be utterly alone. He stood and looked meaningfully at Teagan who nodded in understanding and swept past his uncle into the hallway. He may have brushed his shoulder against Fenris's as he exited, but it was of no consequence.

The concealed hostility radiating from the elf was just as unchanged as it had been on his wedding night.

* * *

><p>Bethany startled at the sound of a clinking surgical instrument resounded in the medical center of the Denerim Haven. She glanced up to see an apologetic Nathaniel as he set the tool quietly back on the table. "Sorry to bother you so late," he said softly, as aware as she was of the slumbering patients just outside the door. "Mahariel and Zevran are heading back to the castle. They're done with their mission, and they wanted me to bring you this."<p>

He produced a small package from his pocket and tossed it at her. With clumsy, cold fingers she caught it and regarded the rectangular brown box. "What is it?"

"I don't know," he replied simply, staring into the deep bucket of bloody water sitting stagnant at the end of the examination table. The woman with wasting sickness had finally wasted away with a whispered and frantic prayer to follow her into the Fade. "Mahariel promises food next time. I hope she pulls through."

"If and when she comes back," murmured Bethany a bit unfairly. Then she sighed, "I'm sorry. That was rude."

"She does what she can," he crossed his arms, "as busy as she is. I understand being frustrated with her. With a world like this beneath the streets of Denerim, politics seem even more pointless."

"You could say that."

In truth, Bethany was just tired. Any other day she wouldn't have judged Mahariel so harshly. After all, it was due to the Dalish that she was safe from the Templars' grubby fingers. They had food, however meager an amount, and shelter. Everyone was warm and guarded. She was getting the chance to learn the healing arts more than ever before. Her sister was not only safe but a leader worthy of leading them into the freedom they so deserved.

But she was exhausted, hungry, thin, filthy, cold, and worked to the bone. Her food she gave to the others, her baths she passed up for the opportunity to help around. Most of Mahariel's group did the same. Often when she looked into the mirror in the hospital toiletry, she saw Anders staring back at her. Was this how he felt? Was he as devastated as she, as overwhelmed? If so, how had he survived in such a state? Who knew that heroes suffered so, and why wasn't it written in any of the stories?

She felt like shaking Varric and demanding an answer to her inquiry, but she hadn't seen him since Mahariel took her from Hawke's Keep nearly a year ago. The Divine had threatened to raze Kirkwall to the ground. Had threatened her life. Hawke sent her away before anyone could bring harm to her.

Bethany had been a baby-faced, kind young woman then. She didn't snap at strangers nor regard them with such distrust as she did now. Not everyone was an enemy, not even Templars. Cullen, for instance, was one of the good ones. But they rebelled, as well. She had no idea which ones were on her side, which ones fought for Mahariel, for themselves, for freedom, or because they had to.

She missed Carver, and she missed Marian. Not Hawke, but Marian.

She wanted to run from her room in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm and sneak into her mother and father's bed, only to find that Marian and Carver were already there and wonder why she had tried to be so brave.

"Bethany, you look dead on your feet," Nathaniel reached out to steady her, and she shied away.

"Sorry, just...remembering. You know, before," she turned away, embarrassed, and began hunting for a tool to cut open the package in her hands.

"It's not so different for me," he said with some pity, his tone as light as it could be for him. "The Warden-Commander would just have me hiking through blood and bile in the Deep Roads if I wasn't here."

"Would you prefer it?"

Finally she gave up and snatched the scalpel Nathaniel had been examining. The parcel was lightweight and compact. When she removed the paper, it revealed a wooden box. Meanwhile, he frowned as he thought about her question.

"A lot less people would be hurting right now."

The second she had unwrapped the present, she knew what it was and opened the box to reveal it. A scroll, pristine and harmless sat inside. On top was a note that read in a steady hand:

_Put this with the others._

_-M_

With a soft sigh, she bade him goodnight, swept up the paper and box, and tiptoed out of the hospital. Just off the recreation room was the forge which kept the entire haven warm so far beneath the ground. Bethany tossed the box and the paper inside the glowing coals but stopped and unrolled the scroll.

To her, it wasn't an evil thing that caused lost mages to murder children. Once upon a time, it was a symbol of hope. How many times had she entered Anders's clinic with her sister to see him scribbling so furiously another one of his manifesto pages? For whom, she often wondered. Why? Who would see it when the mages were locked up in the Gallows like criminals? All the right people, she decided. After all, the events that followed were proof enough that he did change things.

She ran the tips of her fingers down the fibrous parchment, feeling the splatters of ink, the indents of a quill pushed to its limit. Mahariel had shattered the frame in such a rage after finding it in the warehouse, Bethany had thought the manifesto lost forever. But no. The Dalish wanted it burned, burned absolutely and once and for all. She and Zevran were always on the run, and they didn't have time to light fires. Mahariel didn't want to risk losing it by traveling too far with it on her person to burn in the castle. The servants had sticky fingers at times.

They must have visited while she was helping clean up the body of the dead woman.

Bethany sat on the edge of the forge and stared at the bloodied corner of the manifesto. Child blood. Poor babies. The coals burned vigorously, their heat welcome as she stared unblinkingly into the fire. Without ceremony, she tossed the scroll in before she could think too hard about it and didn't look back.

* * *

><p>Hours had passed, and Fenris had neither seen nor heard Hawke in the castle. He was beginning to worry and crept stealthily from his room to begin a search. The servants polished the silver vases in the winding halls, blooming with fresh lilacs and wild roses. Most of them were elves, he often noticed, small and thin and delicate. Few were very old or even ugly. Much like slaves, they were chosen for their aesthetic appeal and many talents. He had to remind himself that the men and women changing his linens and serving his food were not doing so against their wills.<p>

After concluding that Hawke was not in her room, the kitchen, the study, or bothering Teagan or Eamon, he decided that she was still outside somewhere. Gwen was still in her stall and not being attended to by Hawke. The training yards were deserted with all the men at their posts or eating lunch. He decided she might have gone outside to admire the gardens, though she could hardly keep a single azalea alive without rigorous help from Lady Luck.

The gardens outside were lush with vegetation and hundreds of species of flowers. They spilled onto stone walkways and around the bubbling fountain in the courtyard. Winding vines crawled up the sides of the castles, curled through trellises near windows, and sprawled over the ground like reaching tentacles. Crisp grass gave under his callused feet as he followed the outskirts, wary of the gardeners that spoke in soft whispers to each other.

At last he found her, snoozing idly on the mouth of a great fountain built into the castle wall. She was lying across it with her leg crooked, one arm thrown across her small waist and the other above her head. Rich curls of blonde fell about her cheeks, not the least bit lackluster in her prime. Natural light brought out rather than reduced the smoothness of her skin, the gorgeous crinkle of her closed eyes framed with thick, black lashes. Her curvaceous body was hidden beneath the bulky shape of her tunic and pants, her boots plain and heavy. He found himself almost smiling as he looked upon her. Dressed in something a bit more provocative, she might have made the perfect picture of a goddess fallen from heaven.

He scooted close and pushed her crooked leg. She overbalanced and caught herself just before she could slip into the water. Awareness came in stages for most people, but for Hawke, it was instantaneous. Eyes darting about, she noticed the water, her position, and Fenris all in one quick gasp. Recognition passed over her face, and she frowned. But amusement danced in her pretty eyes. "What if I had fallen into the water?"

"You would be wet," he answered innocently, simply, while enjoying the play of light that the rippling water caused across her skin. The charade broke; she laughed at his answer and brushed her fine curls over her shoulder.

"Brat," she murmured fondly. "What are you doing out here?"

Fenris thought, then decided to be truthful. "Looking for you."

The gardener trimming the hedges quietly eased away. Hawke's face changed from happy to curious. Worry creased her brow. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"No," he replied softly, watching a blue bird take off into the sky. Hawke sat properly on the lip of the fountain, her hand dangling in the cool water. Fenris joined her, removing his sword and laying it down.

"This garden's so pretty," she remarked. "Not at all like the ragged collection of weeds I was growing in Kirkwall."

"Kirkwall is not the best for growing plants," he tried to comfort her half-halfheartedly. She never had been truly upset when the carnivorous flowers Merrill purchased for her didn't grow to their full size. In fact, she'd seemed almost joyous when reporting on their dead and withered state. Merill had been terribly sympathetic.

"Still, I should be a better gardener," she sighed, leaning closer to him. Respect for the pain his markings caused—the mental if not the physical—kept her just an inch further than she would have been if he were anyone else. If she had laid her head on his shoulder as she appeared to want, he would not have shaken her off.

"You have more important worries."

"Maybe. So why were you looking for me?" her thin eyebrows arched as she turned to stare into his face, craning her neck and leaning forward with a youthful grace. The locket torn from Leandra's neck when she was taken by Quentin gleamed at her throat, a morbid yet familiar reminder of that day.

"Because my job is to guard you," he glanced down, away from the powerful refracting light, "and my quarry was lost."

"Aw," she cooed suddenly. "You were worried."

He didn't speak, instead choosing to ignore the bait. If he denied it, she would only insist that meant it was all the more true. And it was true. So why bother?

Hawke's wiry lashes fluttered as she tilted her head back, baring her tender throat. Her hair was too long; he was so accustomed to seeing it short and cropped. Until she stopped cutting it for the wedding, he didn't know it curled naturally around her shoulders. The black band she'd bought in Denerim pushed the tendrils from her face. Never had he found a human more beautiful than Hawke, more majestic and full of life. Her charm was a net, capturing all in its wake.

"Beautiful day outside," she sighed in bliss. "I've missed Ferelden, and it's good to be back." Hawke was quick when it came to understanding when he was going to reply. She didn't allow an awkward silence to drag out.

"I imagined more mud," he remarked honestly, "and dogs."

She laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. "Because that's all people will say about it. No one talks about how beautiful it is, just the bad."

He imagined for a moment that that was true of anywhere in the world. Tevinter, for instance, was overrun with filthy mages and their unstoppable lust for power. With such chaos and fear plaguing the streets, who in their right mind would stop to admire the great slanting architecture or the mystic, winding towers that seemed to stab at the very sky? Who cared that all the brick there was grey and the streets seemed lined with silver? No one, because the streets were paved with blood, and it was hard to scrape that black, flaky substance away to see the beauty beneath.

"Have you eaten today?" she surprised him out of his thoughts. Fenris didn't have much of an appetite anymore. Of course, he'd never had much of one. Hadriana had punished him for eating enough times that it became unpleasant. And those years on the run were full of stealing and hunger because he had no money. But his stomach did feel empty, no matter how tasteless the food would be.

Her hand took his; they were almost the same size. Her fingers were just a little bit longer. She smiled at him, sad understanding in her eyes. Hawke didn't eat much anymore, either.

"Let's go," she inclined her head. "I'll eat with you."

* * *

><p>The snap of flesh as Zevran took a bite of his ruby red apple was too loud in the stony silence sitting atop the castle roof. For once his noise-making wasn't even bothering Mahariel. She was crouched precariously close to the edge, peering over the side with the tip of her thumb in her mouth at Hawke holding Fenris's hand and heading toward the main door. As they drew closer, she slid back and sat down with a glassy look in her shining eyes.<p>

Wind whistled and ruffled her hair, and Zevran was immediately reminded of the terrible trim she had given him the night before on their way home with a sharp knife and little patience. He rubbed at the short strands—no longer down to his shoulders nor pulled back with a braid—sticking up at all ends. He appeared an unruly youth, disheveled and filthy. When he had complained, Mahariel didn't even have an apology for him.

"Despite what you think," he said after swallowing, "it is not as it appears. Your relationship with Alistair was similar once upon a time."

"I know that," she snapped. "I don't care if they are in love, out of love, the best of friends! What matters is what others who don't have your intuitive mind think."

"Yes," he concurred, slinking closer to her partly out of distaste for the freezing wind that blew again toward them. "That is true, but rumors are insignificant. Hawke is on the throne, _mi amore_. The game is set."

"I would rather see it played out," she murmured, a little more calmly as he draped his arm around her shoulder. "I've given so much to lay the trail, now I want to watch it burn."

* * *

><p>Hawke bumped her shoulder against Fenris's as they walked, stomach full of gooey pastries. She was developing a dangerous addiction to sweets, but she reasoned that with all the exercising she did, it would work out. Fenris had surprised her by eating a few of them and chatting pleasantly with her. He was strangely conversational, and she was enjoying herself.<p>

Truthfully, though, she wanted to speak with Alistair. They hadn't been talking much, save for the occasional teasing word or a quick 'goodnight' before falling asleep. Fenris's mind she knew and understood—to some extent. Alistair was still a mystery, and she wanted to unravel him before things became too muddled in war and politics. Not that they weren't already.

They stopped at Fenris's room, and she kissed him on the cheek in farewell. He had reading to do, he said. Wanted to finish the next chapter before falling asleep. Whether he was lying or not, she wasn't sure, but she was glad he was taking some time for himself.

Hawke wandered for an hour or two. She stopped in the kitchen and met Bernard for the first time: trimmed mustache, good teeth, tall and thin. Marni blushed clear up to the tips of her pointed ears when he tried to draw her into the conversation. He seemed nice. Hawke liked him and winked at her maid when she left.

Eventually the servants started to toddle off to their beds, and the sun sunk low in the sky. Sparkling gold and rich red and wild orange spilled through the windows and over the hall carpets, lighting the castle on fire with Technicolor warmth. Hawke changed quickly into her tapering nightgown—black with lace trim, silk down to the middle of her knees, a shawl draped around her shoulders—and stood on the balcony with her arms crossed to watch the entire transformation of the world from light to shadow. Distantly she heard the door to her room open, and Alistair called out for her.

With a smile at the night sky, stars twinkling overhead, she went inside.

Alistair was starting a fire in the hearth, striking flint across steel to ignite a dancing flame onto the tinder. She sank onto the foot of their bed, massaging one of her feet as she watched. Few knick-knacks had been added to spruce up the personality of the room. She had few possessions that meant anything to her, and Alistair had apparently slept in a different room before their marriage. Whatever trinkets he carried with him or had collected over the years were not in their room.

"Carry some of your things over tomorrow," she told him while she was thinking about it. "You don't sleep in your room anymore, so bring it over here."

"Okay," he agreed instantly, "if you put some of your stuff in the closet instead of under the bed."

"Ooh, are we compromising?" she smiled, leaning over the side of the bed to extract the cases she'd brought from the Keep. There were other things in a storage room on the first floor: a box of hats, a silver dress, shoes, and a small pouch of jewels to select from in case she needed to. None of it was needed just yet.

Hawke began hanging up her old clothing along with the new that Marni had already put in the armoire. Alistair shuffled about in the background, probably dressing down for the evening. "Did you have a, um, a nice day?"

"It was fun," she shrugged. "I would have rather spent the day with you, though."

For a moment, she thought he'd been scared away. But she looked back, he was removing his shirt thoughtfully. "We could go to Denerim together, I suppose."

Pleasure lit up her face as she shut the armoire and leaned against it. How fine he was standing there with his shirt lying on the bed. How slim his hips and strong his thighs. Hawke tugged at her hairband and tossed it onto the vanity a few feet away as Alistair threw some of the many pillows off their bed and onto the floor. She watched the imprint her weight made as she stepped on one.

"I'd like that," she told him softly.

After a moment of hesitation, he smiled. "Me, too."

* * *

><p><strong>I took a break for Christmas, but I'm back in full force now. I am laying the groundwork at the moment, and that's why there isn't much romance between Hawke and Alistair. Things will progress but at a slow pace. An arranged marriage does not turn into a loving commitment over the course of a few days. Thanks for reading. Review if you want more.<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: It's Almost Easy**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair**

**A/N: Thanks for Reading**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 8<span>

3 Days Later...

"Oh, if I had a bit for every time…my sister came for dinner with that swine," Hawke sang to herself, bobbing her foot up and down as it hung outside the tub. Bubbles swallowed her entire naked body whole and even clung desperately to her soapy hand which held a glass of white wine. Alistair was shaving himself in the mirror, clearly uncomfortable. After much prodding and assuring, she convinced him that she didn't mind his presence while she was bathing and that she would be completely covered anyway. When Alistair saw the suds practically spilling out of the tub, he grudgingly agreed.

Hawke's hair band was hanging from her sloppy bun, the tendrils of hair limp and tired as they slipped from her band and fell in her face. Every once in a while she acquired the cognitive function to set down her wine and tuck them away before blindly pawing the ground for the glass again. Her coronation party had ended only an hour ago, and she was still suffering the effects of the three bottles of wine she'd had during the celebration afterward. Her cheeks were flushed with alcohol, her gaze glassy and wide. All in all, her mind was not that impaired; it was her body that was receiving the most punishment.

When she decided to clean herself of the body powder and perfume her servants sprayed her with, she could still manage to walk. As time passed, though, a sleepy haze spread through her body. Her bones turned spongy, her muscles liquid. Only the most basic instinct to grip kept the glass from falling out of her hand and shattering. If she stayed still for much longer, she was afraid of passing out in the tub and drowning in the water. That was why she began to sing, to distract herself from the silence passing between them.

"It's getting late," she noted absently, taking another sip of her wine. Someone else opened her mouth and let the sickly sweet liquid pass her rosy lips. Another being in control of her body let her hand hang languidly at the side of the tub again.

Alistair placed his blade down and washed the thick shaving cream from his face. Without the stubble, his jaw was more defined. He was dressed in plain black pants without a shirt, and Hawke admired the drops of water clinging to his broad chest. "Yeah, I guess it is."

"Want to go to bed?" she asked and didn't imagine the strangely sultry tone underlying the question. "I might need a little help getting out." He nervously tugged on the waistband of his pants and turned to face her.

"I'll go get Marni if you're ready."

Hawke gingerly set down her glass. She blinked at him. "Just hand me that towel, will you?" A vague gesture directed his attention at the white blanket-sized cloth set out to cover her modesty. Alistair handed it to her, and she fumbled it open. By the time she managed to stand up, he had fled into the bedroom. Hawke beat back soap suds as she stumbled out of the stone basin and onto the slick floor.

Off-balance and a little dizzy, it wasn't long before Hawke fell on her bottom and sat there laughing with her towel pressed against her chest. Alistair poked his head in cautiously, saw that she was covered, and offered a hand to help her up. She took it gratefully.

"Shouldn't have...drunk so much, eh?" she giggled, stumbling right into him. A hazy, pleasurable sensation as skin slid against skin spread through her. Bubbles smeared across his chest; she hadn't probably doused herself with water before getting out.

Trying to make light of the situation, Alistair cleared his throat and forced a smile. "I drank a lot more than you did at my coronation. Don't worry."

But Hawke wasn't to be entertained with small talk. She was distracted by the press of their bodies—his covered by thin cloth, hers by a fluffy towel—and the spin of oily rainbows inside the sliding suds across her hand as she reached up to touch his face. His eyes were made of honey as they stared at her, liquid gold. Isabela had said something about elves having pretty eyes once...

At the best of times, Hawke was brazen when it came to her desires. The fact that they were still strangers didn't even register in her mind as she pressed their lips together and hooked her arms around his neck. Unfortunately, with nothing else to hold onto the towel, it fell to the floor at her feet, neglected and forgotten. The buzz of a moan or groan or protest was lost against her lips as they stumbled through the open door of the bath. Hawke felt lush carpet beneath her feet.

Mere heartbeats passed, but it felt like falling, and falling seems to take forever. Heat coursed through her veins, and she moved her hands into his short, blond hair. A shiver passed through him, and Hawke was pressed so close she could feel it. The thin barrier of his pants was too much, and she ached in her intoxicated delirium.

A most miraculous thing occurred then: Alistair _kissed _her back. For a faint moment, the pressure was not all hers, and a joyous feeling lifted her heart. Yet she couldn't quite recall _why _it was such a momentous thing, only that it _was _and she was meant to enjoy it. And Hawke didn't understand why he was hesitant when she lightly scraped her nails down his abdomen or why he nearly jumped out of his skin when her fingertips lingered on the waistband of his trousers. The drawstrings were _right_ there, and she wanted to _feel _him in her hand.

"Alistair," she whined, because she knew the tense set of his shoulders spelled rejection, and she so eagerly wanted to go to bed sated and drunk. His desire burned against her hip bone, and she knew that he wanted it just as badly as she did.

Then the door opened.

The breath went out of her as he nearly pushed her away, and she stumbled a few steps before catching herself on the foot of the bed. Cold air hit her skin, and she held her arms to retain the heat that was left. Alistair was staring in horror at the doorway, and she turned her head to glare at the intruder in annoyance. It was none other than little Marni, fresh towels in her arms. The color of her cheeks was nearly puce, and she stuttered out an apology before trying to shut the door.

Alistair recovered first, calling her back. "No, wait, uh, can you help Hawke get...dressed?"

Marni nearly dropped her towels as she re-entered. "Y-yes, your majesty." She rushed over to where the queen was sitting on the bed and offered a towel just as large as her last one. Hawke took it and wrapped it about her torso as Marni put an arm around her waist and helped to lead her into the bathroom. The queen watched with idle fascination as Alistair ducked out of the room in a great hurry.

"Could you knock first, please?" slurred Hawke in the maid's direction.

Marni nodded silently as she dressed and wiped the bubbles off her mistress—not necessarily in that order. By the time the exhausting task of standing up while being attended to was over, Hawke could scarcely stand on her own. She collapsed onto the giant four-poster bed and smiled as Marni kindly drew the canopy curtains around her so that the sun wouldn't hurt her eyes in the morning.

Never had Hawke woken up in such a violent fashion. She bolted awake, falling straight out of the darkened cocoon of the bed and onto her back, legs bent at the knee still on the divan. Sheets were tangled about her ankles, a pillow landing straight on her face. Angrily, she sat up and threw it at the wall. Just as she did so, the blood rushed to her head, and pain exploded along her brow.

"No, no, no," she moaned and crushed her face to the carpet, curling into a ball.

"This should help your head, miss," a deep voice said, and she whipped over onto her back in surprise. It was Bernard holding a glass of what appeared to be red tar. "The king thought you might need it."

Squinting up at him, she asked, "What is it?"

He appeared embarrassed. "It's an old tonic we used to use on King Cailan. See, he had a gift for going out and partying the night before meetings and such. Queen Anora always had it ready for him."

"And Alistair thought I might need this?" she reached for it and found it to be warm. A gentle sniff told her that it smelled just as bad as it looked. "Dear Maker, I don't have to drink all of it, do I?"

"Afraid so. Best to just plug the nose and take it all in a few gulps," he advised.

Hawke took a moment to blink the sleep from her eyes and then clamped a thumb and forefinger onto her nose. The tonic felt like thick sludge sliding down her throat, completely cohesive in form. She swallowed it quickly and handed back the glass as hastily as possible. The aftertaste that hit her was worse than the headache. "That's foul," she coughed.

"Aye," agreed Bernard, "but it'll cure what ails you in a matter of minutes. Get you ready for the day."

"Oh, no," she groaned. "What time is it?"

"Little before midday. All things considered, you didn't sleep very late, my lady."

"Oh, good," Hawke breathed a sigh of relief. She peered up at Bernard curiously, as if just realizing he was there. "Where's Marni? Aren't you kitchen staff?"

"Aye," he said, "but I'm the only one that knows how to make the tonic, see. Marni's up to her elbows in gravy from breakfast dishes, so I said to the king, 'I'll bring it to her.' If you need help with dressing or linens and such, I can help with that, too. I used to watch after the king before I became kitchen staff."

The mention of getting dressed for the day was what brought it all back, and a feeling of deep dread settled in her stomach. Alistair knew she would need a hangover cure, because he had experienced her drunken company first-hand. Hawke remembered with a growing apprehension the drowsy seduction she had attempted, forcing herself on her timid and virgin husband on her very first night as queen. She could see his flushed face in her mind's eye, his shaking hands and the faint pressure of his lips against hers. Slowly, she touched her mouth as if to bring back the warmth such a simple touch caused. Her fingers had come alarmingly close to disrobing him completely. The dread turned to an overwhelming disappointment in herself.

She'd lasted a week. After promising herself to take it slow when it came to sex with Alistair, she'd lasted a measly few days before her crazy libido won over. That would teach her to get drunk and let her guard down.

A tiny ray of hope did shine through, though. If he was sending her get-well presents, he couldn't be too angry with her. But even if he wasn't upset about the entire affair, he was probably extremely skittish, like a new dog the child had rubbed the wrong way. Actually, the more she remembered, the more she stopped berating herself. Didn't she feel the desire he had for her pressing insistently against her hip? Was that the reason he'd run out of the room when they separated? To hide his embarrassing issue?

Maker, she hoped so. She was beginning to feel old and unattractive.

And...didn't he kiss her _back_?

"My lady," Bernard waved his hand in front of her face, "are you all right?"

"I'm...fine," Hawke frowned. "Where's Alistair?"

"The library, I think."

The queen climbed off the floor and opened her closet to strip down to her small clothes and tug on a royal blue tunic and a pair of black pants. Bernard closed the doors as she went to her vanity and ran a brush through her tangled curls, yanking them back into a bun. She checked herself in the mirror and was satisfied with her plain beauty. "Thank you, Bernard," she said and headed down the hallway.

She had to apologize to Alistair; it was the only thing she could think about. As she raced down the hallway, a certain sense of embarrassment came over her. Step by step, she slowed until she was walking in a dignified and orderly manner befitting a queen. For the love of the Maker, she was thirty years old, and she was acting like a lovesick teenager. No matter how she behaved at times, she was still an adult, and despite Alistair's inexperience, he was, too. If they couldn't transcend one mistake, what good as a pair would they be?

Hawke forced herself to walk to the library, and she paused at the doorway to watch him working. In many ways, he reminded her of Anders with his endless writing. Yet he wasn't as frenzied or as afraid. He was king; what did he have to fear? No templars would be beating down his door anytime soon.

Alistair caught her out of the corner of his eye. "Hawke," he said in greeting, pausing in his writing.

In the last three days, they'd come far. He was calmer when he spoke with her, dignified and resolute. She was beginning to see the little leader in him. Still, the tips of his ears were pink as he watched her. Hawke tried to appear as sheepish as possible as she plopped down into the soft chair in front of his desk.

Rather than beat around the bush, she blurted, "I'm so sorry for the way I behaved last night, Alistair."

The sheer surprise on his face was almost worth running down the hallway.

"Oh, Maker, it was worse than I remember, wasn't it?" she buried her head into her hands. "I practically _mauled _you, didn't I?" Heat flashed across her skin, a myriad of images popping into her head—roving hands, slick skin, bare chests, her naked thighs flush against his clothed ones.

He barked a nervous chuckle. "You drank a lot last night. I get it."

"I'm a terrible wife," she exclaimed, voice muffled by her own palms.

"A case could be argued against you," he said. "If we weren't—if…if this wasn't an arranged marriage, any man might be lucky to have been, well, 'mauled' by you."

'I'm such a fool," she sighed and dared a chance to look up at him. To her relief, he didn't appear upset; he almost looked amused. "I haven't messed us up completely, I hope?"

"I don't think so," Alistair answered softly. "I'm sorry I, um, pushed you last night. You aren't…I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, I think I landed on the bed," she frowned. "Probably for the best that you did. I don't…"

"What?" he peered closely at her.

"I don't want to rush this," she brushed some of her hair back. "I really, really don't. I want this—us—to work out. If I had gone to a different room last night or gone back alone, we wouldn't have had accidents like this."

He seemed to wince at the words 'accidents,' but she let it go. Whether he thought last night was a mistake or not, she did. Proper courting etiquette did not allow groping a week after meeting. Hawke had never had a normal romance in her life. She wanted the relationship with Alistair to pan out more than anything in the world. Well, just after solving the entire mage crisis. In hindsight, though, she had a better chance of luring her second-time virgin husband into bed than freeing all mages everywhere.

"Are you…?" he trailed off. "Are you suggesting I move to my old room?"

No, she hadn't been, but the sheer brilliance of the idea hit her like a bronto. Why hadn't she thought of it? What better way to mimic a growing romance than to actually mimic it? Two people who had an interest in each other didn't just bunk up immediately. No, they took it slow. They developed a friendship, then a romantic inclination, and then they were married and moved in together. Her and Alistair's relationship was all out of sorts. "Would you be okay with that?"

"My wife is asking me to move out," he joked. "I'll find a way to recover."

"I'm not _asking _per se," she smiled prettily, "just lightly suggesting."

His eyes widened by mere fractions. "So you do want me to move back to my old room?"

"I'm not sure," she answered truthfully. "I mean, we are married. If you want to stay in our room, I won't toss you out. But wouldn't it be better if we eased into sharing our living space?"

She wanted to smack herself. Why had this not occurred her days ago?

Slowly, he nodded. Was he masking hurt? She couldn't tell. "I guess it makes sense. You're still getting used to living here at all, and then you have to put up with me."

"I don't dislike living with you," she said and, without thinking, reached out to touch his hand. Realizing her mistake, she thought he might recoil. He didn't. His gaze didn't even waver as he patiently waited for her to speak. So Hawke squeezed his fingers, reveling in the roughness of his palm. "Actually, I'm kind of used to you holding me at night. I'll miss you when you're gone."

The embarrassment was back, his ears blood red. "M-me, too. Sort of reminds me of the Blight. We were always sleeping near each other. For the heat, you know. Well, all except for Morrigan." A pregnant pause followed his words, and she watched his brow furrow in thought. Then he said, "Do you want me to move my things today or…?"

"Whenever," she shrugged. "There is no rush."

Hawke reached across the desk and turned his hand over, running her fingers along the calluses there. He was a warrior that used a sword and shield. A person that fought others and defended himself. "Mahariel, Eamon, Teagan, and I just drafted a letter this morning," he said, watching her draw casual designs on his palm. "It was to the Empress of Orlais. We've told her to ready her armies."

She froze in place.

"Hawke," he said, "we've declared war."

For a long time she was silent. "Oh," she said at last.

"Oh?" he repeated in surprise. "Wasn't this what you wanted?"

"Yes, oh, yes," she said, her voice thick with emotion. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest, a mixture of relief and pure dread buzzing in her head. "I never thought it would happen." Hawke leaned over the desk and kissed him on the cheek, disentangling their hands. "I think I need to be alone for a minute."

Hawke was certain that his worried expression followed her all the way out the door.

* * *

><p>Mahariel was perched on the windowsill of her room in the highest tower of the royal castle in Denerim fiddling with her keeper's ring and staring out at the rain. A fire burned viciously in the grate, and the heat was fogging up the windows. Velanna's thickly bound book of Dalish tales sat open on her lap, the ink faded with time, but she wasn't reading it. She liked the weight of it on her legs, heavy and reassuring. It made her feel as though the Dalish had stories that weren't mired in the loss of their traditions or drowned in human blood.<p>

Zevran slept soundlessly on their massive bed, his shirt bunching up around his waist and revealing his tan stomach. Miraculously, even after so many years in Ferelden, the color had not washed out of his skin. Not that she resented the fact. No, she found it almost humorous how much the assassin tried to hold onto his heritage. His accent only became thicker over the years despite the fact that, in rare moments, she found it slipping away into proper Ferelden. By the time he was old, it wouldn't exist at all.

On rainy days, Mahariel found herself becoming uncharacteristically melancholy. She missed the smell of hare stew, the sound of rolling wagon wheels, and the green of the forests. The weight of the world rested on her shoulders, and she felt it more than ever when she wasn't doing something. But visiting the haven too often would reveal its location, and, though she kept her ear to the muddy earth, not a word of any cults had reached her pointed ears since she and Zevran had returned. Of course, she didn't expect word so soon. Her contacts had to bribe the scum of the undercity, quicken the thieves and spies that would catch things a common guard couldn't.

She lifted her hand and smeared the fog away so that she could see outside. Tumultuous clouds gathered in the sky, looming maliciously as the rain fell. Memories of wet clothes, blowing tents, and huddling around magical fires made her smile. She longed for the great height of her keep and to see and lead her wardens again. Too long they had gone without her guidance. Spending her days prowling in crowds of humans and seeing her fellow elves eating off the scraps thrown their way was starting to scrape away at her. She wanted to be in a place where everyone but the darkspawn were equal again.

She wanted to be at Vigil's Keep.

Anymore her entire life revolved around war. Finishing it, cleaning it up, starting it. The peace in her Dalish clan was but a series of memories proven true only by the small souvenir she rolled between her fingers. Only with Zevran did she find a moment of true tranquility, and the real world lurked just outside their bubble of contentment, calling her name so desperately. Save us. Save us.

Anders's death weighed heavily on her mind, still. Four years he'd been dead, but the fact that he was truly gone still caused her pain. For one of her wardens to go so completely rogue...the idea was foreign and painful. For it to be Anders—fun-loving, playful, flirtatious Anders—was more than she could bear. She'd loved him once, after all. He was one of her wardens, and she didn't take that bond lightly. No good Warden-Commander did.

The more cults she eliminated the fresher the pain became. And running into Gabrielle had been a nightmare. Those worries coupled with her presence in noble society becoming only tolerated at best, Hawke and Alistair moving at a snail's pace, the haven's supply shortage, and the letter recently sent to Orlais to declare war, Mahariel couldn't doze contentedly like a sleepy mabari as she normally would have on such a terrible day.

With a sigh, Mahariel slipped the ring onto her finger and closed the leather-bound book on her lap. She crossed her arms over the cover and hugged it to her chest, sliding her knees up. As she closed her eyes, she felt warm lips pressed against her cheek. Zevran pulled her off the window sill and into his arms, the book shared between their beating hearts.

She hadn't even heard him rise from the bed.

* * *

><p>"You've been in here all day, my boy," Teagan peered over his shoulder at what he was writing. "Come now, you have a wife far more beautiful than that parchment. Why don't you go give her a surprise?"<p>

Alistair smiled slightly at the suggestion. Give Hawke a surprise? What would it be, a rubber ducky for her bath? More jewelry she would never wear? A new bow to sit in a case leaned against the wall in their—_her—_room? Untouched while she acclimated. Disused thanks to the political turmoil broiling just beneath the surface of a hundred painted, white faces. Maker, he wanted to talk to Mahariel.

"She's busy right now," he answered simply, re-reading the top line of the letter before him for the third time. He had no idea who it was even from. Hawke was on his mind, as she had been all morning. Fingers running through his hair, hot lips on his, naked body sliding against his chest. He found himself gripping the quill in his hand too tightly and set it down to avoid an accident.

Teagan raised a critical eyebrow. An entourage would escort him home tomorrow. His after-marriage stay was at an end. Eventually Eamon would depart for Redcliffe, as well, and it would just be him and Hawke with the whole castle to themselves. Well, Mahariel and Zevran would probably slink around the grounds once in a while, when they cared to visit or make themselves known.

Alistair had an awful feeling that the two of them were keeping more and more secrets from him than they probably should, but he wasn't intrusive enough to pry. Mahariel had her own demons, and despite what he said, Zevran did, too. With their keen minds put together, they managed to create and clean up their own chaos. His input would only muddy things, as it often did. Besides, with a war on the horizon, he had new problems to be concerned about.

"You aren't going to spend my entire visit working, are you, Alistair? The next time I come, it will be under much less pleasant circumstances," Teagan pressed, though he was only teasing. If Alistair had been willing to bond with him, the Bann would have been telling him the entire time that he had work piling up on his desk.

Alistair never got the chance to respond. Hawke appeared at the doorway as if summoned by the very mention of her name. Even dressed down, she was utterly breathtaking and handsome in the dim light of the palace. A mischievous sparkle glinted in her eye, but she had a serious intent hiding beneath. Alistair glanced up at her curiously.

"Teagan, I'm going to borrow my husband, if you don't mind," she inclined her head.

"Please, take him," said the Bann, crossing his arms and sinking into the black chair by the far wall. Hawke reached across the king's desk, palm up, fingers splayed in a clear invitation. A nervousness crept inside of him as it did whenever she was around, her charisma overpowering. When he touched her hand, the events from the night before flashed through his mind.

She tugged on his hand, and they were off down the corridor. When he opened his mouth to ask where they were going, she shushed him quite firmly. Talking was clearly not what she had in mind. They headed downward. Around the stairwell on the bottom floor, a maid was bustling about with a wicker basket of white cloth. Alistair grunted as his queen pushed him into a corner, her hands resting at his waist, her head against his chest as she listened hard and waited for the woman to pass by.

He didn't understand.

The gray-haired threat passed without incident, and Hawke pulled on him again. Only a few more twists and turns, and he realized they were going outside. Sometime during the day, the heavens had split open, and water gushed from the sky. Mud caked the threshold of the entry hall. The guards were all inside, hiding. Completely unfazed, Hawke pulled him right out into the pouring weather.

In a matter of moments, he was completely soaked. Hawke's hair stuck to her scalp, dying the pretty blonde black. As her clothes became damp, he found he could see the firm outline of her hips and breasts all the more. Fortunately the dark color of her clothes prevented him from seeing anything else, and her eyes were blazing with an emotion he couldn't place.

Her fingers slipped under his shirt, and he backed up. "Hawke-"

"Take this off," she plucked at his top. Alistair stared in confusion and disbelief as she shed her own—to his relief, she was wearing a plain sleeveless blouse beneath. The other garment fell in the mud, completely forgotten.

"What are we doing?"

"Just take this off," she ordered, disrespecting his personal space and helping him to shove the clothing over his head. She tossed it in the dirt, too. Luckily it was not one of his favorites. Thunder exploded overhead, lightning striking in the distance past the castle walls. "Hit me," she shouted over the roar of the torrential rain.

He didn't think he heard her correctly and was about to ask her to repeat herself when he found a foot flying at the speed of light toward his jaw. Only years and years of honing his reflexes helped him to dodge the kick and smack her quick foot out of the way. Alistair couldn't believe what was happening. Were they sparring? Why? He didn't have time to contemplate.

She was almost as quick as Mahariel, ducking and spinning, and flying away from his attacks. The more he blocked, the more his muscles protested. Throw up your arm. Dodge. No shield. Use the base of your palm. Her jabs were meant to maim and destroy. Like an assassin. Go in for the kill, no matter what. Whoever had trained Hawke had done it well. In the rain, she was too slippery to get a good grip on, but the mud served him well. He was stronger than her. When they collided, she couldn't get any traction on the ground. She slipped. She slid. She faltered. She retreated.

But she always recovered, and Alistair hadn't been in a fight in a long time. He thought he'd forgotten all the old tactics, but that proved false very quickly. When she tried to hook her foot around his ankle and twist, he remembered to move with her to evenly distribute his weight and keep balanced. Push, pull, fight. Keep breathing, keep breathing. Don't think, just _act._ Her feinting didn't throw him off as he learned her techniques. Strength kept her at bay. Not darkspawn, not an ogre, Hawke.

After an hour or so his skin was flush with exertion. Disused muscles screamed as he tried to dodge her attacks. Hot sweat mingled with the cool rain, and he couldn't tell if he was trembling or shivering. Hawke's own hair was standing on end, goosebumps patterned along her arms. Yet she was red in the face and panting for breath. Fire burned in her eyes. Her hair band lay broken on the ground—had he ripped it out?-and hair clung to her neck, hanging in her face like a wet curtain.

Hawke didn't attack again, and he used the time to recuperate. He still didn't know what the point of the fighting was, but he was suddenly glad she had led him outside to do it. A familiar sense of satiation settled in his stomach. He felt relaxed, almost pleasantly drunk without the drawbacks. Once Hawke stopped breathing so hard, she approached him, smeared with mud, and pulled him into an embrace.

It was like the night before but with no heat. He could feel her heart pulsing with his own, rapid and delightfully taxed as it tried to pump blood to her frozen extremities. Wet skin against wet skin. Bare and bare. Totally human. And Alistair held her close but not as her husband. He embraced her as a warrior, a sister in battle.

Breaking down barriers. There was more than one way to be physically intimate.

Hawke breathed hard on the hollow of his throat, her forehead pressed against the side of his neck. "Thank you," she whispered, and he realized her gratitude was not just for the sparring match.

* * *

><p><strong>Damn, Hawke gives in easily to her desires, doesn't she? Especially when she's drunk! Thanks for reading. Review if you want me to continue.<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: It's Almost Easy**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair**

**A/N: Thanks for Reading**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 9<span>

"Why is someone always disturbing me when I'm sleeping?" demanded Hawke as she got out of bed and yanked on her shawl. She tripped on one of the pillows, paused, and decided she had enough time to punt it across the room before dragging herself to the door. Opening it revealed Marni pushing a silver cart of delectable foods. In her hand was a bundle of letters, and she handed them to Hawke as she slipped into the room.

"Apologies for waking you, my lady," Marni said. She left the cart at the foot of the bed and began laying out clothes. Hawke used a fork to rip the paper of the first letter, tossing the others on the bed.

"Is there a reason you did?" the queen asked.

"Ah, Bann Teagan is leaving today. I thought you might want to wish him safe travels."

"Right."

The first letter was from Isabela and read in her sloppy, spotted handwriting: _Coming __to __visit, __not __bringing __Sebastian, __want __to __hear __every __last __detail. __Have __a __room __ready_. In the greatest splatter of ink Hawke had ever seen was the pirate's flourishing signature. There was a red wine stain on the corner—or what she hoped was wine—and the parchment looked as if it were torn from a novel. Flipping it over confirmed her suspicions. A page torn from a Chantry ledger. A crudely drawn character winked at her from the margins, and every time the word 'Maker' popped up, it was doused with heavy ink blots.

Hawke shook her head, popped the corner of a flat pastry into her mouth, and proceeded to tear open the next letter. Given its neat print and proper spelling, she guessed it was from Varric before even noticing his name. The letter was an account of his recent activities, mainly his smuggling goods to the mages hidden in Darktown, a detailed account of an attractive dwarf merchant that just joined the Guild, and his wishes that she be both happy and safe (_Though __try __not __to __become __one __of __those __overstuffed __nobles, __you __know, __more __than __you __already _are).

"When is Teagan leaving, Marni?" Hawke asked distractedly, peering at the last letter which was just an update from her Seneschal in his sarcastic, bordering-on-disrespectful tone.

"In an hour or so," she answered. "The horses are being packed for the journey."

"And where's Alistair?"

Marni hesitated a moment before saying, "In the war room, ma'am."

Hawke blinked in surprise. "The war room? Why there?"

"Well, m'lady," she smoothed the wrinkles in the sheet, "he's been there since dawn just moving the pieces about in deep thought. I'm wasn't sure if he was planning strategy or doing something important, so I didn't bother him."

It was not in Alistair's habit to wander in the war room. In fact, it seemed to Hawke that he almost avoided it on purpose. With the tense air around the castle as they waited for the Empress to reply to their declaration of open warfare, she supposed it made quite a bit of sense to be planning strategy in case of another occupation. That didn't lessen the unease in her heart, though the feeling bubbled up from guilt rather than actual concern. Hawke wondered if he wasn't morosely pushing figurines across a map of Ferelden because yesterday she'd kicked him out of their room.

And jolly, carefree Teagan was finally leaving them, which was a depressing thought in and of itself.

"Has he eaten?" Hawke asked, setting the letters on her desk and reaching for the clothes Marni put out—a simple green blouse and black trousers.

"As I said, ma'am," the maid said kindly, "I didn't want to bother him."

Hawke wrapped a pastry in one of the embroidered napkins when she was finished fixing her hair and clothes and headed toward the door. "Have a good day," she said in farewell.

The maid called after her, "And you."

Cool air hit her in the hallway, and the changing season hit her all of a sudden. The rains yesterday left the scent of damp earth lingering on the wind and throughout the castle, which was a welcome difference from the perfume and scented candle wax that usually pervaded the air. Hawke smiled dreamily to herself as she sauntered down the hallway.

Light filtered in through the windows and spilled over the luxurious carpets and sparkling silver vases. She saw only a few light-footed servants padding about, busy at work. It occurred suddenly to her that she didn't know any of them very well and that she should probably fix the dilemma. In the Keep, she knew all of the men and women that served her, and it made the atmosphere much more pleasant.

Eventually, Hawke stopped admiring the scenery and halted in front of the door to the war room. A great map of Thedas lay pinned down with jeweled daggers to a beautifully-crafted mahogany table that was bolted to the floor. The walls were washed in dark varnish as if to match the gloomy implications of visiting such a room. Various types of weaponry hung on display, a particularly threatening mace placed just above the ornate stone fireplace on the far left. The wood floor gleamed in the sunlight, the crimson carpet almost out of place with its fiery burst of color.

Alistair was in his nightclothes still, a shirt pulled over his usually topless ensemble. The gold buttons went unused, and the top hung open against his chest and taut belly. Despite the chill in the air, he remained boldly barefoot. Hawke watched as he reached out thoughtfully, nudged a figurine in one direction, and shook his head. A novel desire to know what he was thinking emerged. Staring after him for a few more minutes yielded the realization that not announcing her presence was rude, and she cleared her throat.

The king nearly jumped right out of his skin.

"Hawke," he stammered in surprise, recovering. "I, um, didn't see you."

"That's because I didn't want you to," she winked and shut the door with her foot as she entered. "What are you up to?"

Eyes flickering to the door in confusion, he gestured at the table. "Just...thinking, I guess."

"About the war?"

"Yeah..." he turned and moved another figure as she came closer. "Well, to be honest, I was thinking about what my father would be doing right now. Or what...or what Cailan would do."

Hawke nodded at him, thinking. Her own father would have hated the idea of going to war. Malcolm Hawke wouldn't have reverted to base tactics like fighting. Words would have been his weapons, facts his army. The manifestos he could have written would have made Anders's pale in comparison, because unlike that sad little abomination, Malcolm had a family. He lived with the fear that his own 'curse' would have harmed his daughters and son. That was what scared him the most. What scared Anders was his own greed, his own desire. Vengeance.

Alistair put his head in his hands. "I'm tired, I guess. Didn't sleep much last night."

"Oh, sorry," Hawke shook herself out of her own reverie. Guilt welled up.

"No, no!" he backtracked. "It's not because I was in my own bed. Just because...well, I have a lot on my mind."

Hawke nodded, though she didn't quite believe him. "Enough not to eat?" she produced the napkin from her pocket and slid it into his hands. "I swear, between you and Fenris I already have two children to take care of."

He smiled sheepishly. "At least we have you to count on."

"That you do," she bumped her shoulder against his, rather liking the pleasure of personal contact. "Try not to worry about what others would do in your position. It's irrelevant at this point."

"I still wonder," he said thoughtfully, taking a bite of the pastry. "Eamon's staying to help advise me, and I have you and Mahariel—the best two war-starters I've ever met."

The queen's face warmed. "I don't know if that was a compliment or not."

"I'm not sure either."

The carved faces of the toy soldiers on the table glared at her, and Hawke reached out to flick one. It knocked a mabari over before skidding into the warm waters near Antiva. "Huh," she frowned. "Think that's an omen?"

"Invade Antiva?" he quirked a brow.

"Eh, maybe next year."

Hawke hopped up on the side of the table, sitting so that she faced him. Her hand was braced in Ferelden, fingers sprawled over Denerim. All in her hands. "How busy are we today?"

"No meetings planned until the letter from Celine," he answered immediately. "Teagan's leaving in an hour or so, though."

"So why are you still in your pajamas?" she said, glancing pointedly at his bare chest. Her eyes followed the trail of hair over his lower abdomen that led down beneath the waistband of his trousers and flickered up to see him blushing faintly.

"I came down here in the middle of the night," he said. "So I didn't get dressed."

"Ah," she frowned, slightly concerned that he had been in here all night long, alone with his thoughts. She knew how trying that could actually be when one was haunted by the type of demons that shared. Hawke understood how easily conviction could turn into guilt, how heroics could become dirty little secrets.

How friends blended with regrets and love cut like knives.

"Well, how about another date?"

He appeared pleasantly surprised. "Sure, yeah."

"Later tonight?" she tipped her head and swung her dangling feet back and forth. "We can sneak away. Might be fun."

"Sneak where?"

"Out," she shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Ears pink, he answered, "I suppose not. I'll let you decide, then."

"Okay," said Hawke. She let out a tight breath and trailed her finger along his bicep. No sexual connotations attached. Just to touch, to feel. He was much warmer than the room, and it made her want to curl close. "You should probably eat more than just that."

"Maybe later," he dismissed. "I want to go down to see Teagan."

"Well, you have to get dressed, husband," she reminded him gently, smoothing back his hair as he stared at the table. "Soon, before you catch cold."

"I will," he smiled, "before I go down."

Warmth curled in her belly. Anders popped into her mind. All this silly back-and-forth shyness wouldn't have stood with him. Not ragged, worn out, hasty Anders. Any hint of feeling that wasn't platonic, and he might have shoved her up against the wall and had his way. The thought made her shiver more than it should have. She blinked and focused on her husband, very real, very alive Alistair who was not only legally bound to her but also her partner in the upcoming war.

They weren't really all that alike, she reasoned. It was the regret for all that she didn't say that kept bringing her memories of Anders to the surface, not Alistair. Because she associated romantic intentions with both, her mind tied the two of them together. As time passed, she hoped, Alistair would replace the pain in her heart with something else.

"Who am I to chastise you about eating, anyway?" she teased, tugging on a few stands of his silken hair and refusing to meet his eyes. Depression lingered on the edge of her psyche, all the buried pain threatening to rise. The sun was warm against her back as it fell through the windows and lit her blonde hair until it was streaked with gold. Like fire against the morning sky, the smell of death and disturbed dust floating in the air. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear the screams, Sebastian's furious war cry...

"Hawke?" Alistair peered curiously at her, and she shook herself. "Are you okay?"

"No," she answered as she would have if Fenris had asked, "but it'll fade. It always does. Don't worry."

"You hide a lot of things, Hawke," he said with a sudden intuitive edge, leaning forward and ducking away from her exploring hand. Distantly, he stared out the window. "You and Mahariel both do, and I get it. There's a lot of stuff that she knows that I don't _want _to understand. But with you..." he seemed to struggle and paused.

Hawke blinked at him patiently. "I think it would be best if we tried not to keep secrets from each other, you know?" Nervously, he turned to watch her. The beginnings of wrinkles around his eyes charmed her, the firm set of his mouth enticing, and the profound intelligence locked away behind a stuttering, awkward man pulling her in.

"Alistair," she swallowed, almost desperately glancing away, "it's not anything important. Trust me. It's just very personal. And ridiculously tragic."

"Right. I didn't mean to pry."

"You're not," she assured him, clapping a hand on his wrist and forcing a smile. There was a sudden chill in the room. "I'll tell you about it someday. Just...not so soon."

He nodded his assent, though there was scarcely anything he could do to make her talk. The pain was still raw, and she didn't even discuss the intricate, heart-breaking details with Fenris, her most trusted confidante. A man who wouldn't judge her or offer consolation because he knew she didn't think she deserved it. A man who would neither defend her decision nor condemn it. Because it was her choice, and he understood that. No, not even with a man like that would she confess how close she came to falling right into that vengeance-filled pit by Anders's side.

Or how hard it was to turn such an offer down and slide that blade deep into his spinal chord.

"So," he coughed, "how did you sleep last night?"

"I was a little cold," she admitted with a demure grin.

"Me, too." A comfortable silence followed. Hawke plucked one of the little soldiers from the board and placed it right in Kirkwall, twisting her body so that she could trace the outline of her corner of Thedas with her small pinky while Alistair stared out the window. It called to her, the Keep and her subjects, and she longed for the smell of parchment and ink. To be busy once again.

A few minutes passed. Alistair finally broke the silence. "We should, um, go wish Teagan safe travels."

"Right," she let him step back and then hopped off the war table. "You should probably get dressed." He was already at the door, retreating.

"Meet you downstairs in a few minutes?" he asked, unsure.

Hawke wiggled her fingers in farewell. "Of course, Alistair." After a moment's hesitation, he nodded and headed out the door. A gush of cold air hit her and sent goosebumps rising all over her body. Licking her lips, she made her way to the window. The frame was wide and elongated, taller than she was and marvelously open to the outside world. Hawke had to reach up on her toes to undo the latch, and once the lock was removed from the equation, she threw the panes open with gusto.

Fresh air rushed in so that her flaxen hair billowed with the immeasurable power of it. She was bathing in wild wind, pure sunlight. For a moment, it was almost as pleasurable as riding Gwen on the vast, dangerous Wounded Coast. Like fighting her way tooth and nail out of a bandit-filled cavern. Like making a deal with the devil and surviving despite the odds.

* * *

><p>Mahariel sat in a booth at the Gnawed Noble, arms crossed over her flat middle with a look of extreme displeasure marring her pretty features. The foul, bitter taste of human ale lingered on her tongue, further putrefying with every moment that passed. Rancid rabbit stew perfumed the air beside her despite the fact that she had draped her napkin quite politely over the gluey food substance. No matter how many times she visited the filthy tavern, she neither saw the appeal nor warmed to the poor service and desperate nobles that gossiped around (and about) her pointed ears.<p>

Eventually the high-pitched jingle of a bell sounded, and Mahariel placed two silvers from her pouch on the table without looking up. She slinked toward the room she'd rented in the back and shut the door behind her, tempted to latch it just to show her annoyance but deciding in the end not to be childish about the entire affair. How she despised such cloak and dagger tactics! It crept under her skin and nettled her to no end. But she needed help, and who was she to argue?

Mere minutes passed, and she stood firmly in front of the door with her eyes latched on the knob. The very second it turned, she put a cautious hand on the dagger strapped to her thigh and waited.

"Ugh, I forgot how much of a pig that innkeeper is," Isabela said as she shut the door and raised an eyebrow. Her voluptuous and unforgettably well-endowed body was draped in a thick black robe, her dark hair shining from underneath the lip of a concealing hood. She pushed it back, revealing jewelry Mahariel had not seen on her when they crossed paths long ago in the Pearl. The set of her petite shoulders was more sophisticated, the tilt of her head both curious and accusing. "Are you going to shank me? After I made such a long trip?"

"How many?"

"Maker, you're still the same charmer," she snorted, pushing past the elf and producing a green bottle from beneath her robes. "Can't we have a drink?"

Recalling the drink she'd ordered from the tavern, Mahariel held up a hand. "I don't drink. Answer my question. Please." She added the last bit as an afterthought.

Popping the cork, Isabela took a swig, and a glazed expression came into her eyes. "Three. Hmm, good year."

"A healer in the bunch?" Mahariel inquired, hoping despite herself.

"One, I think. Skinny girl. Blue eyes. Red hair. I don't know her name."

"In hindsight, it's not important," the Dalish dismissed. "Where are they?"

"On their way to you-know-where. Nathaniel met us at the docks."

"Perfect," Mahariel replied, critical mind at work. If she could integrate the new healer into the haven outside the city, Hawke's sister could be placed in a position of power in the castle. If enough pressure could be taken off Bethany's shoulders, then she would be free for Mahariel's use. Battling Templars. Maybe helping Isabela smuggle more mages out of Tevinter and Orlais before the fighting prevented such underhanded tactics.

"They're all healthy as far as I can tell," Isabela said through a mouthful of red wine. "I tried to pick fighters like you said in your last letter, but all the saps that _really _need help escaping aren't fit for boiling tea."

"Those mages must be left to fend for themselves," Mahariel said coldly. "We have enough dependents and children in Denerim's haven. When you leave here, I'll select five mages from below and you'll take them to distribute in Antiva where Zevran's crows can protect them."

"If that's what you need," Isabela shrugged.

"Hawke is unaware of your true purpose?"

"Letter should have arrived today about my visit," Isabela leaned against the wall. "I haven't been lying to her, but I certainly haven't been telling her about this whole affair for the last few years. She's had a lot to deal with. I mean, it's been a long time, and she's still not over killing Anders for what he did."

"He might not have deserved it," murmured Mahariel, lost in thought.

"You know," the pirate said conspiratorially, "I wonder if Hawke really knows the extent of your schemes, Mahariel. You've got pretty much all of us wrapped up in this: Varric, me, Merrill, Bethany, and even Aveline's keeping an eye on Cullen, who's also up your sleeve. Anders is dead. The only reason Fenris isn't in on the whole game is because his loyalty to Hawke is as unshakeable as belief in the Qun."

"You're not betraying that loyalty," Mahariel snarled, angry at the allegations. As if she were doing something wrong. No, the smuggling and switching of mages was to build an army in the Underground which would help Hawke in the long run. Meant to save lives—remove and protect the weak from the fighting and import the warriors that could make a difference, and Mahariel didn't have quite enough friends of her own to use. Explaining the details would not only take hours upon hours but would give both Alistair and his queen yet another plan to worry about.

"Where is Merrill?" inquired Isabela.

"Under Dalish protection, where she belongs." A fierce protectiveness for her fellow sister rose. It was difficult enough to convince her own clan to take in the blood mage, and Mahariel didn't feel like defending her decision. Mostly because it was based on sentiment rather than any logical train of thought, and she prided herself on her ability to remove sentimentality and make the call.

"Good."

Mahariel collapsed into the pliant couch across from the fireplace. The bottle of wine was set in front of her, and after a moment of hesitation, she reached out and took a pull. Cool raspberry flowed over her tongue, burning pleasantly as it slid down her throat. Much better than the tavern's expensive swill. "You are here to visit Hawke, aren't you?"

"I need a little relaxation," Isabela's eyes twinkled, and her hands unfastened the cloak shut at her neck. "You'd be surprised how all this skulking around can wear a girl out. Plus I want to hear all the sordid little details about Hawke and Alistair's wedding night."

Mahariel kept her mouth shut about the _real _details—or lack thereof—and swallowed another mouthful of liquor. Buzzing began in the tip of her toes, and her limbs felt full of lead. "They've moved into different rooms," she found herself saying.

"Really?"

"Yes, but the important part is that our noble friends believe they're a happy couple with some space issues," Mahariel frowned. "Hawke plays the part of a loving wife well, always touching and smiling."

"She's good at that," Isabela crept closer, and the cloak fell around her ankles in a silken, inky pile. The barest of cloth clung to her pronounced curves, and she smiled with bone-white teeth as she took a place next to Mahariel on the couch. "I'm good at it, too."

"I'll just bet," said the Dalish jadedly, passing the wine and scooting away from the pirate's enticing warmth. "How long are you staying?"

"Long enough to make myself comfortable," Isabela answered, leaning forward to set the wine on the table. The clatter was deafening, the rustle of cloth as she sat back even more so. Mahariel glanced at the hearth, longing for a roaring flame to burst forth and heat up the room. She felt cold suddenly and wished for Zevran's arms around her or at least a blanket to wrap around her shoulders. "You're shivering," a voice said in her ear, and she closed her eyes.

"Am I?" Fingers caressed her arm lightly, and she felt breath on her cheek.

"Will this cause a stir?"

"You mean to ask if Zevran will mind."

"Yes."

Mahariel sucked in a sharp breath. Isabela smelled of perfume and briny sea air from the docks. When she spoke, her mouth hardly moved, "No." It was an invitation that Isabela gladly accepted, hooking an arm around her neck and sealing their lips together.

* * *

><p>"You move well with a blade," one of the guards called, and Fenris's ears pricked up more out of instinct than actual interest. He paused in his technique, panting. Sweat trickled down his temples, his snowy hair plastered to his skull. The cool wind only served to numb his bare fingers, so frozen they uncurled stiffly from the hilt of the sword. The markings on his arms gave a severe pang, and he rolled his shoulders in an attempt to loosen up the stiff muscles.<p>

Fenris didn't care to reply, and when he didn't, the speaker appeared in his line of vision. Annoyance threatened to appear on his face, but he schooled his countenance into one of cool passivity. Open hostility did not sit well with in polite society—a fact he had learned well while accompanying Hawke to seminars and meetings across Kirkwall. Besides, it would do no good to become involved in a confrontation with a guard, which was the replaceable slot the man in front of him clearly filled.

He was tall for a human and sinewy rather than awkward and large. A few days' scruff roughened his jaw and neck, his thin mouth surrounded in a well-trimmed goatee. His blonde hair was cropped short and messy, and it reflected the arrogance in his bright blue eyes. In the army, one might have referred to him as a rookie. An unorganized recruit meant for cannon fodder. Fenris certainly would have put him on the front lines as a shield for the men who actually looked like they could handle themselves.

"You're the queen's bodyguard, aren't you?" he inquired, and Fenris scowled. He couldn't help it; the question was stupid.

"Yes," he replied anyway in an attempt to end the conversation as soon as possible. The sun was actually warming his back when he stood still, and he reveled in the feeling. The sweat on his skin was drying, and it left him chilled.

"I've never seen anyone so fast," the guard continued. "Mackey said you can, like, disappear in thin air. Just, you know, go _through _stuff. He saw you do it."

The sudden desire to harm the boy came to his mind, but he once again fought the unpleasant emotion back. _This _was what he despised about modern society. Fenris was a man, regardless of the torture and the markings and his position in Hawke's employment, and he didn't appreciate being gawked at like a gypsy.

Instead of answering, he began a slow walk back to the castle. Ignoring him seemed like a good plan. What he didn't count on was the boy's reckless insistence. He followed, armor clinking. "Oh, hey, sorry. I guess that was a bit rude," Fenris noticed some color in his cheeks. "I'm not trying to be, you know. I'm just curious, I guess. You're...well, I've never met someone from Tevinter before."

Fenris faltered. Was his life story really common knowledge among the guardsmen?

"Marni told me," he explained, deducing the reason for the missed step immediately. Sharper than he looked. "Her mom was from Tevinter. She said she heard you swearing in it or something."

Perhaps he had cursed in the mage tongue. It wasn't an unreasonable consideration. Hawke chided him at times for it because she couldn't understand, but he often didn't realize that he'd reverted to the old language. Still, that the servants were gossiping about him didn't sit well. Not that he hadn't realized they did, but it still stung a bit to have it admitted to his face. An outsider everywhere, it seemed.

"You don't really look like you're from Tevinter," continued the guard, and Fenris turned sharply toward the west wing. "The mages that come here? They're all pale like the noble ladies that used to visit the king before he got married. You're sort of dark-skinned. Like you're from Antiva or Seheron."

So he'd misjudged the boy's intellect. He was smart enough to use both use his sources and deduction to come to a conclusion. An accurate one to top it all off. Even Hawke had to ask where Fenris originally hailed. Or perhaps she didn't want to be rude and assume. He would wonder about it later.

"Andraste, do you have a place to go or what?" he jogged closer. "You're being kind of rude."

Ten years, and Fenris had dropped the negative connotation associated with the word 'rude.' Rude meant he was being protective. Safe. Cynical. If Hawke were at his side, she would jab him in the ribs and tell him to reply. So Fenris stopped. So did the guard. They were outside the castle still, and the cold made Fenris's words tight.

"I apologize," he said formally, "but my duty is to the queen, and I need to find her."

"Right," the blonde frowned, clearly not forgiving him entirely. "She's probably saying goodbye to the Bann in the front of the castle. He's leaving today."

Fenris tilted his head in a reluctant bow and said, "Thank you." As he turned away, he heard the boy speaking again.

"My name's Alec," he called. "Alec Ross."

Alec Ross. The name meant nothing to him. Nevertheless, he waved in response without turning. Making friends in the middle of a war was never advisable.

* * *

><p>"Do you have to go, Teagan?" asked Hawke a bit petulantly. "Can't you stay with us a bit longer?"<p>

"No, no," he laughed, "I think you kids have it from here. Besides, Isolde's lonely with Connor in the Tower and Eamon here. Someone's got to keep her company."

"Maker help you with that," joked Alistair as Teagan yanked him into a brotherly embrace. At some point during the day, the sun began to poke through the clouds. Light fell in great beams on their informal farewell ceremony, bouncing dramatically off Alistair's bulky golden armor and Hawke's buffed leathers. Marni stood in the shadows of a tree nearby, watching from beneath the bangs in her eyes.

The two men separated. "Call for me when you need me, my boy. I'm only a letter away and more than willing to help with this coming war."

Alistair's face darkened at the mention of such a somber topic. "I'm sure I'll need you, Teagan. In the meantime, try not to let Isolde boss you around too much."

"Never," the Bann smiled. His eyes slid away from the king and to Hawke who was waiting patiently for her affectionate goodbye.

As predicted, Teagan approached and gripped her fingers in his. "It'll be a tragedy not seeing your pretty face everyday, my queen." If not for the amused twinkle in his eye, she'd have thought he was serious.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find a way to move on with your life," she teased, smoothing out the collar of his crimson tunic. Red was a good color on him. "Maybe it's time to give up on your bachelor life and get a wife yourself."

"Blasphemer," he kissed her cheek. "Besides, I have enough trouble with Isolde. You'd think I was the one that married her!"

Hawke had met Isolde only once during her skirmish in Orlais with Tallis and her qunari list of names. The woman seemed as pathetically whiny as any noble in that part of the country. Similar in demeanor to the few Orlesian families that lingered in Kirkwall.

He withdrew, and she missed him already. Teagan's charm and gaiety was always welcome. To see him go seemed a tragedy. She waved while he mounted the white stallion he'd brought to the castle. It gave a snort and pawed the ground anxiously. His guard wasn't as extensive as it should have been, and Hawke felt uneasy watching him leave with so little protection.

Teagan glanced off in the distance and then back at the two of them. "You two are one of the good things about this war, do you know that? I see a bright future ahead of you."

"Thank you," they said at the same time and then smiled at each other.

"I'll visit again soon. Hyah!" he kicked, and the stallion raced off at once, the others following on their own mounts as quickly as possible.

Hawke watched him until he was just a small speck on the trail leading into the badlands of Thedas, on his way home to Redcliffe. Alistair was staring off just the same as she, his mouth slightly open. The sight made her grin widen, and she bumped her shoulder against his in a playful sort of way.

"Now if we get rid of Eamon, I'll have you all to myself," she flirted.

He laughed, but it sounded a bit choked. "Well, Eamon's busy. Did you want to go into Denerim?"

The proposition brought a happy flush to her cheeks. "Definitely," she agreed.

"Let's go round up the guard, then," he said, offering his arm.

Hawke took it gratefully, and they headed inside.

* * *

><p><strong>School kept me busy. The entire story won't be chronological forever as it would take a million chapters. I'll begin skipping around in time soon. As I said, this is just the groundwork. Thanks for reading. Review if you want the next chapter.<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**Title: It's Almost Easy**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair**

**A/N: Thanks for Reading.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter<span>10

"So, what's _this _one from?" asked Hawke, pressing her fingers against the junction of Alistair's shoulder and collarbone where a silvery scar shone in the dim firelight. The water only made it more visible, and she puckered her lips to gently blow away the distorting drops.

He tensed a little. "I can't really remember," he said with an apology in his eyes. She shrugged and passed her fingers over it again, feeling the strange smoothness of the surface. "What about the one on the back of your wrist?"

With some confusion, Hawke stared at the sight in question and saw the overlapping puncture wounds. "Teeth," she explained. "A mabari bit me. Twice." She sank back against the side of the bath and took a deep breath. The heat of the room made it slightly difficult to breathe, the steam rising in thick waves to bake their bare skin pink. All the sweet night air was locked outside, behind walls of thick mahogany wood painted red and marble floors. She tilted her head back against an embroidered pillow and reached to take a drink of her wine.

It was her idea to come to the bathhouse, though Alistair's acquiescence was hard won at first. Like most people, he thought it an establishment of ill-repute and didn't think it wise to be seen in such a place, even with his wife. What he didn't understand was that the people in bathhouses were trained in discretion, and that gold could silence any wagging tongues. Besides, hiring a prostitute was not required upon visitation. Sometimes the bathhouse was a good place just to take a relaxing bath.

Then it was a matter of overriding his caution. Alistair didn't seem to mind stripping in front of her as he had done so without qualms on their wedding night and then again many nights after that to sleep. Of course, he'd always kept his loin cloth on, and that was allowed in the baths. But the last time they mixed drinking, hot water, and bubbles, the entire affair got a little out of hand.

So, with a warrior's honor, she promised not to molest him without due cause, and he'd agreed a little reluctantly.

"The scar on the back of your neck," she said suddenly, luminous eyes meeting his. "Where is that one from?"

He reached behind and felt. "Oh, I forgot about that."

"You don't remember?"

"No, I just forgot it was there," he explained. "You know the stories about Zevran, that he tried to assassinate us when we met him?"

"He was hired by Loghain, right?"

"Yeah, well, he nicked me there good on that day. Mahariel got him around the throat, though, and brought him down. I didn't think it would scar, because it was such a shallow cut. That was before he told us he'd poisoned the blades."

Hawke sucked in a breath. "What kind of poison was it?"

"'An old Antivan favorite,' Zevran said," Alistair mimicked his voice, "when he was cleaning the cut with some sort of antidote. It stung for a long time before he thought about it."

"Ow," she sympathized, rubbing her own neck. Poison was never something she used. It seemed cruel and unfair, but she supposed it would be useful to an assassin. "Varric liked to meddle with poisons. I never touched them." Mostly because she could never remember all the types and was too afraid that she'd knock over a vial with acidic properties.

"We used them a lot during the Blight," he sighed. "In the Deep Roads sometimes, when we were surrounded by them, a well-placed acid vial saved our lives." Darkness crept into his eyes, and he became lost in his memories.

"I've been into the Deep Roads," she confessed quietly. "They're awful."

"We spent weeks down there looking for Branka," he rubbed at his eyes. "It's a wonder that Zevran and Morrigan didn't get infected. By the time we found her, we were practically drowned with Darkspawn blood."

Hawke remembered what it was like. Blood and bile ran from the walls, congealing on the floor so that the caverns were wrapped in blankets of pulsating, bloated flesh. The stench was reason enough to turn back, the indescribable scent of decay and death, a foreboding pervading the air like a suffocating gas. Then there was the pure fear. She remembered sitting on watch late at night, flinching at shadows, running to the rescue of men who cried out in fear of noises. Rasping growls and distant screams echoed. She shivered and sank deeper into the hot water.

"Being a Grey Warden must be terrible," she said, echoing a sentiment she had conveyed to Anders multiple times.

"It's not easy," Alistair conceded lightly. "It comes at a high price."

"Thirty years," she said, and he glanced at her in surprise. "You have thirty years to live, right? Anders spilled some of your secrets. He was-we were close enough to talk about it."

The torches flickered lightly, and for a moment, the only noise was the bubbling of the hot bath. Then Alistair nodded. "Yeah," he said, "thirty years. I only have about twenty or so left. It's not exact, though. We never know when we're going to receive the…"

"The Calling," she supplied. Larius's jerky movements came to mind, the unsettling way in which he moved in the dark. "You're meant to die on that trip, right?"

"Usually," he stared at his hands, and she realized that this probably wasn't the best topic. Speaking of one's own death was never easy. "Some of us are lost. The Darkspawn can't kill us because we're too skilled. We twist and turn into one of them. Into ghouls. It happened to one of Mahariel's friends, once. That's why we always seek the horde, knowing that we can't fight them all off alone."

"Maker's breath," she exclaimed in terror. She couldn't imagine it, being stuck in those terrible halls, searching for the brunt of a horde of malformed monsters ready to tear her limb from limb. That they actually sought a group they had no chance of fighting off. "What happens if they don't kill the Warden? Do…do Darkspawn always kill you?"

He hesitated, and she bit her lower lip. "I won't tell anyone. I swear."

"It's not that," he gestured uselessly. "I'm not sure you really want to know."

A silence descended. After a moment she nudged him gently and asked, "Please?"

"The women are dragged away," he turned his head sharply as if not wanting to look at her. "That's why there aren't many female Wardens. The Darkspawn take them and do monstrous things to them: rape them, make them eat their own friends, fill them with the taint. Men are sometimes turned. Into shrieks or other Darkspawn. Sometimes ghouls."

"Damn," Hawke rubbed at her shoulder, suddenly cold despite the intense warmth of the pool. "I'm sorry I brought it up."

"No," he murmured sadly. "It's probably-it's good that you know now. That you…understand and know what to expect."

The set of his shoulders was anguished, his face covered in shadows and closed off to her. Anders had often fallen into melancholy when talking about it. She would, too, if she were resigned to such a fate. When stuck in a world where the only options were death or a life worse than death, how did one even function in society?

Hawke couldn't help it; she communicated with her touches. She slid up beside him and laced their fingers, laying her cheek on his shoulder. He started and turned to stare at her, golden eyes sparkling in the low torchlight. So warm and so close, she could feel the pulse of their hearts. Almost in sync.

"I really am sorry, Alistair," she sighed, closing her eyes. The heat and comfort of touching him was nearly overwhelming. Her skin sang where their thighs brushed beneath the water, so unbelievably close.

"The Blight comes with a price. I've elected to pay it," he said. "Hey, it beats growing old and fat, eh?"

There was an appeal in growing old and fat, she had always thought, but recognized that he was finished speaking about his certain death and wanted to move on. She didn't let go of his hand but opened her eyes and blinked at him with a false smile tugging on her lips. "Oh, I don't want you sticking around too long. I like my men pretty." As if to emphasize this, she dragged her nails lightly down his arm.

"Ha," he snickered. "I'm afraid you're off to a bad start."

"Oh, I don't know," she purred. "I think you look awfully attractive when wet."

In a gentlemanly show of interest, he peered down at her face, though her breasts were above the water and enticingly soaked. "Likewise," he said brightly.

"Aw," she smiled, standing up to wade into the middle of the pool. She toed carefully over the outer step and sank deeper until the water was up to her pretty neck and she was practically swimming in liquid heat.

So far away, his face was cast in shadows. The water was black with spots of lights rippling across the surface, the torches spitting sparks from the walls. Hawke wrapped her arms around her shoulders, bent her knees, and ducked below.

The sound of water in her ears reminded her of the rush of blood when she was fighting. All other noises cut out. She was suspended in space, limbs inert. The bubbles caressed her legs and slid up her arms, tickling sensitive skin. When she opened her eyes, it was only to feel the sting of soap and see nothing but a vast darkness.

Eventually hands gripped her and hauled her up. She coughed and wiped the water off her face. Alistair was concerned. "Are you all right?"

And Hawke slid her slippery arms around his neck and locked her legs around his waist, holding onto him. His height allowed him to stand unhindered. The pool only went up to his shoulders. "I was just getting my head wet," she replied, though she wasn't quite sure what she had been trying to accomplish. "My hero..."

Up close her eyes adjusted to the pale light, and she could see his face. There mysterious atmosphere was seductive, pulling her in, and she pressed her lips to his. The arm around her back tightened, and he urged her a little closer, the slickness of their bodies making it almost difficult to fit together. Feeling bold, she traced the shape of his mouth with her tongue, and he hefted her a little higher so that she was forced to clench her thighs around his upper waist. In this position, she was nearly a head higher, and he craned his neck to kiss her deeply.

Her head spun, the heat sweltering. The chemistry was simmering between them, two very compatible people clinging to one another. Scented soap filled her nose, the heady taste of him intoxicating. She squeezed her legs even tighter and heard a throaty moan. Her hand trailed down, past his collarbone and came to rest on his broad chest. A bolt of desire shot straight through her, and a dull ache was beginning between her bare thighs. Fingers tangled in her hair, the long strands falling quickly out of the messy bun she'd fixed earlier.

Just as she was about to gasp for breath, the door burst open, and Alistair nearly dropped her in sheer surprise.

"There you two are!" declared an annoyingly familiar voice, and Hawke felt herself being set down. "Look at you! Some royal pair you are, sneaking around in the dark of this very _seedy _establishment! Get out of there right now!"

A short, curvacious woman wearing a red dress was standing in the open doorway in absolute fury. "My Arl," she seethed, voice dripping with venom, "we have catered to the needs of the royal before, and this _seedy establishment _has the best reputation in Denerim."

Hawke felt a painful resentment bubbling up as she disentangled herself from her husband and swam to the edge of the pool. Water poured off her body and all over the ground. She covered her eyes in pain as the light spilled in from the open doorway. Eamon was still talking, and guards were flooding the room with their authority. One of young ladies helping draped a towel over the queen's shoulders. She felt Alistair climb out beside her.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves," Eamon ranted madly. "There's a war going on out there beneath these very streets, and you have the nerve to run out in the middle of the night for a pleasurable dip?"

"Oh, bite me, Eamon," snapped Hawke as she hastily dried off and reached for her trousers.

"Yes, very befitting of royalty," he snarled. "King Maric would turn in his grave."

Alistair gave a derisive snort and bumped his shoulder into Hawke's. "He'd likely be cheering from the sidelines," he whispered for her ears only. She had to hide a smile as she yanked a cotton blouse over her slick skin. What a sight they'd make walking back in the cold with their underclothes soaking through.

The woman in the red dress stormed to where they were getting ready and said, "I'm so sorry, your majesties. He just came right in."

"That's Eamon for you," replied Alistair cheerily.

"A discount," said the woman. "No, a lifetime discount if ever you wanted to come back."

Hawke shot a glance at the Arl, reckoning that he had only a few more months of living at the castle before Isolde came to fetch him. "We'll see," she said.

"Let's go!" the man barked.

"Andraste's sake, you'd think I was caught in the barn feeling up the neighbor's son," she frowned, already feeling shivery from the air creeping in. Wet hair hung about her face, and the tie she'd put it in was probably lost in the water somewhere.

They were herded outside, and Hawke nearly rolled her eyes when she saw the full compliment of guards that had followed. Patrons poked their heads out of their rooms to stare half-dressed at the reprimanded couple. Some girl with glossy lips was laughing so hard her counterpart had to smack a hand over her mouth.

Despite the degrading parade, Hawke didn't feel very sorry. How many times had Fenris come to fetch her at the bathhouse in Kirkwall? Too many. When she glanced at Alistair, she saw the amusement dancing in his eyes. They smiled at each other, and Hawke threaded their fingers.

* * *

><p>Mahariel tugged on her tight trousers and laced her black boots, watching the persistent rise and fall of Isabela's naked body buried beneath thin, cheap blankets. It was a foolish moment of exhaustion that possessed her to sleep in the tavern after their tumble. Four bottles of wine sat empty on the table they'd pulled close to the bed in a stumbling, misguided desire to be organized. The fifth was by the door on its side where Mahariel had kicked it while trying to disentangle herself from the bed.<p>

Outside the quiet bubbling of morning conversation drifted through the walls. Spices flavored the air, breakfast in the process of creation for those patrons idiotic enough to want it. Mahariel's head ached in a familiar way, her mouth dry, muscles sore. Cold nipped at her extremities, wind seeping through the cracks in the rotting old inn. She put a hand to the painful bite on her shoulder with some annoyance, careful to cover it with her coat and blouse. Zevran she did not mind seeing it, but Isabela did not need to witness her own handiwork. She was already the epitome of arrogant vanity.

The pirate lump on the bed moaned and rolled, and a dark limb fell over the side, fingers dangling. It was late for a morning, and Mahariel's heart beat in an anxious rhythm the more she thought about how much time had been lost. Were the mages safe? Had Teagan left? Was Zevran still at the castle or had he wandered off? Thousands of questions filtered through her mind as she calmly dressed and finally glanced in the mirror.

The elf was a gaunt thing with claw-like hands, ghostly eyes, and a pallid complexion that rivaled even the richest of noblewomen. There seemed to be a significant flush in her cheekbones, though, if she inspected herself closely enough. The taint was working its magic fast in her, that was for sure. Sometimes she would catch Zevran staring at her, real concern lurking beneath false smiles and petty assurances. He was thinking about her death in those moments, considering the time limit as her weight dropped below a hundred and twenty pounds and the shadows beneath her eyes threatened to swallow the fiery gems whole.

Why the taint was steadily creeping up on her she wasn't sure. Alistair was the elder Grey Warden, yet he appeared both plump with life and entirely healthy while she wasted away. Stress probably had something to do with it. Maybe it was that her infection was odd to begin with, the way she contracted the disease by touching that blasted mirror all those years ago. To drink Darkspawn blood on top of that; was a double dose twice as toxic? Was she just unlucky?

Nevertheless, whatever the reason, the Calling would come soon. Five or ten years, she guessed. Alistair had said she would have thirty, but living to fifty seemed like pushing the limit of what her body could take. She was worn out, exhausted, and almost ready to take the walk in the Deep Roads, to disappear and never come back.

Mahariel shook her head. She must go on. There was too much to do.

Fully dressed, she headed out the door without a glance at Isabela who was still snoring gently in the aftermath. Sex to her was like sex to Zevran. Enjoy it. Move on. Don't linger. Mahariel understood that, and she had work to do.

She shut the door softly and turned on the spot to leave the Gnawed Noble until the time came again when she would take her place by the door and wait for a contact to show. Instead of the graceful exit, she ran flush into a familiar Antivan with golden brown skin and honey eyes. "Ah, there you are, _mi amore_," he whispered with what sounded like relief in his voice, caging her with his strong arms.

"Zev?" she gasped in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Warm breath ghosted over her pointed ear as he laughed. Her back touched the door, and she could feel his heart beating through his shirt. The smell of leather and a faint trace of cologne filled her senses. "My lover, the important Hero of Ferelden, goes missing in the night on a simple meet-and-greet run?" His muscles contracted, arms squeezing her tight. "I was looking for you."

Mahariel was at a loss for what to say. "I'm sorry," she finally decided, stepping back. "I…I fell for a distraction, I suppose, and had to stay the night."

Curiosity played in his eyes. They went to the door and then back to her. "You and...Isabela?" Disbelief colored his tone; she didn't imagine it.

"Jealous?" she prodded, trying to play it off. Deep inside, a part of her thought he might actually be angry. The more logical part of her told her she was being ridiculous.

A flurry of emotions passed across his face, two of which seemed to be skepticism and then pure amusement at her expense. He stared at the door as if it were a court jester doing its finale. "I _am _a terrible influence. And Isabela..." he laughed, "the woman could charm the pants off the Divine."

"I actually don't appreciate that comparison," she shoved past him and headed for the door, her cheeks burning slightly. An unfamiliar feeling rose up, one she hadn't felt since she was a bumbling Dalish girl learning to use a bow for the first time: embarrassment. His chuckling followed her down the hall, and then he called after her and jogged at her side.

"Oh, _mi amore_, I'm not poking fun at you," he assured her jovially. "No, no, I'm simply shocked. Yes, that's it."

"Forget it," she muttered hotly as she stormed outside. He had the nerve to be a proper gentleman and open the door for her. Forceful wind tore at her too-long hair. Rain fell from the sky in a miserable drizzle. Zevran caught her arm before she could march too far away.

He kissed her, and his kisses tasted like peppermint. She cringed to think of the stale wine on her breath, the dried sweat and oil in her hair, and the musk of sex clinging to her clothes and unwashed skin. If he found her repulsive, he didn't show it, wrapping an arm around the small of her back and locking their hips together. Fingers massaged the base of her skull, his kiss alarmingly sweet, though she knew it was a gesture for silence and understanding: he wasn't angry. She shouldn't be either.

As it broke, she stared into his eyes and found no mockery there. "I was not laughing _at _you, Mahariel," he murmured. "Though if a simple joke makes you angry, perhaps it was a mistake, no?"

"No," she sighed, relaxing into his arms. "Not a mistake. I'm just...exhausted." It seemed a reasonable excuse. Fear flickered in his eyes for a brief moment. Fear of her death, that she was becoming slower, weaker, thinner, more like _them_. Then it was gone, and his playful mask was back in place.

"I'll bet you are," he smirked. "Well, let's head back to our cozy nook in the highest tower, and you can rest."

"I can't," she immediately replied. "I have responsibilities, Zevran, things to take care of."

"Well, then," he sniffed, peering past her shoulder, "let's get them finished quickly."

* * *

><p>Bethany hated mornings.<p>

She could always tell when they came, even living underground, because Nathaniel was allowed outside, and he followed a regular sleeping pattern. When he awoke and the rustling began in the storeroom where he made his bed, she knew that the sun was shining down on another bright day, and she was missing it. The mage sighed at the unfairness and began scrubbing the bloodied tools in earnest.

It was a few minutes before Nathaniel emerged, looking very scruffy but still more well-kept than she. Strands escaped his ponytail. Stubble grew along his jaw and upper lip, the beginnings of a mustache peeking through. In the haven, they had no slips of metal for shaving or soap that could be spared for such a task. So he did without, as all the men and women did.

"Good morning," he muttered gruffly, and Bethany hummed in response. There was blood on her hands from a surgery that morning. Benny, a ten-year-old boy, was suffering from gangrene. She'd had to remove three of his toes. After such an experience, 'good morning' wasn't very accurate.

Nathaniel peered at the ceiling where the sounds of scrapping tykes and arguing parents echoed in the caverns. "I'm going topside today," he announced.

"For what?"

"Mahariel," he said shortly, and she understood that he was not going to elaborate.

Finished cleaning the tools, she grabbed the bowl of water and bent down to poor the swirling pink liquid down one of the drains. "I'll be here," she said a little bitterly. When she got back to her feet, ignoring the dirt clinging to her dress, Nathaniel was staring at her with something like pity in his eyes. "What?" she asked.

"Are you...all right?"

Bethany stared in surprise. Nathaniel was a taciturn and unfriendly man with a cynical view of most, of not all, people. Their conversations usually hovered in the purely business area and rarely ventured outside anything but supplies and whether or not she would need him for the day. Even the night after Marian's wedding, when Bethany broke down, he did not ask after her state of being.

For him to do it now was not only extremely bizarre but incredibly suspicious.

"Why?"

"You _are _spending too much time down here," he glared at the walls. "She was right."

"What are you talking about?" Bethany demanded, slightly impatient.

"The reason I'm going up," he leaned forward, beckoning her closer as if about to reveal a very important secret, "is to ask Alistair and Hawke to allow you to stay in the castle."

"Allow...me?" Bethany felt hope rising in her chest and squashed it before it could do any permanent damage. To see the sun? Hadn't seen it for months. When she on the surface, it was always dark. Cold, creeping shadows closing in, hiding templars and twisted guardsmen. Mahariel was her sun, her light to follow in the dark. Could she change that for the real thing?

"To live out in the open again," said Nathaniel.

"With _my sister_?"

"Yes," he nodded.

Too good to be true. "But why?"

"You've become a moving piece of the puzzle, Bethany," he explained. "We can't win the war for mages without mages. You'll have to fight by Zevran and Mahariel's side, rescuing mages, putting down the cults."

She curled her fingers on the counter. "She said it was too dangerous."

"It's dangerous _everywhere_." Very true.

Bethany felt her heart fluttering in her chest, an unfamiliar sensation. "Thank you for telling me."

It would give her hope to face the day.

* * *

><p>Zevran appeared like he usually did: at the edge of Alistair's vision, cloaked in shadows and completely soundless. When the king glanced up to rub the back of his neck, he nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise as the assassin stepped forward with an impish grin. "So sorry, your majesty," he bowed low and subserviently, but the mocking intent was clear.<p>

"Shut up," Alistair frowned. "What are you doing in here?"

"Well, I suppose a visit is out of the question," the assassin quipped, taking a coin from his pocket and flipping it up in the air. The old habit almost lightened Alistair's heart. Once upon a time it had been a dagger that he tossed above, throwing it between his deft fingers. The coin, however, proved less threatening to guests and so they accepted it more readily.

"The last time you came in here to visit me, you told me you were going to Antiva to take over the Crows," Alistair started arranging his papers. "I didn't see you for two years." He didn't know why he threw in the last bit. Maybe it was a misguided attempt to make Zevran feel guilty. Then again, he never felt guilty about anything.

"Oh, such drama, Alistair," the elf wiggled his finger, taking care to perch on the arm of the plush chair in front of the desk. Maker forbid he ever sit in it. "Nothing quite so permanent, I assure you."

"Then what?"

Zevran's smile widened, and there was something like affection shining in his eyes. "You see, this is why I like you. None of this subtle beating around the bush. You dive right in. That is what makes you a good king."

"Stop trying to butter me up," Alistair growled, growing a little irritated. Documents from all over Ferelden sat on his desk, waiting to be reviewed and signed. The war was still very much on his mind and nettled him constantly. Hawke's lips from the night before kept ghosting over his own, leaving him dizzy and burning up. _This _distraction he could do without. "Just tell me what it is. Please."

"Mahariel is running the Underground, Alistair, and she does the very best that she can with what she has," Zevran caught the coin midair and schooled his countenance into one of serious business. "The problem is that there are hundreds of mages that need rescued, fed, sheltered, and protected. The haven can only hold half as much."

"So you're asking my permission to build another one?"

"No," the assassin moved forward and placed his palms on the edge of Alistair's desk. "I am asking you to provide protection for your people. Useful protection that will guard all of the citizens of Ferelden, including those that can wield magic."

Alistair groaned. "Might as well ask me to move the bloody moon. I can't find who it is that allows these vicious attacks. I'm doing the best I can. You have to admit that the attacks have dropped dramatically."

"Because the mages are living underground," replied the elf. "War is coming, Alistair. Once it begins in earnest, there will be an influx of mages from all over. Not the various few that we get everyday, but thousands of refugees, much like the flooding of Kirkwall after the Blight. These people are living like rats beneath the streets. They must see the light of day."

"So you have a plan, then?" Alistair demanded. "Because I don't have one. Mahariel doesn't have one. Hawke doesn't even know about the mages, as far as I know. So what's the solution, Zevran?"

A malicious glint came into Zevran's eyes. He lifted his chin and said, "Appoint me the leader of your guardsmen."

"What? Are you joking? Please, tell me you're joking."

"My jokes are never so poor, my dear king," Zevran grinned savagely, baring his sharp elven teeth. "I am completely serious."

Alistair got out of his chair and leaned against the windowsill. "Look, I know I'm not the sharpest man ever, but I have realized that elves are sort of second-class citizens, especially in Denerim. If I did that, do you know what kind of outrage there would be? People would probably riot, for Andraste's sake!"

Zevran scowled and gestured to the door. "The woman that the people look up to most in the world is an elf. The last man to give himself in honor of the Blight was an elf. You, the king, trust an elf over any human I've met to give you honest tactical advice and solid judgment."

"But that's different," Alistair argued. "You're talking about Grey Wardens, people who accept death the moment before they take the Joining. Race doesn't matter to the Wardens. It matters here."

"I can weed out the weak," Zevran snapped, the darkness glittering in his eyes. Rarely did he ever become visibly angry, but Alistair could see his control trembling at the edges. "I am the master of a league of extraordinary assassins, and if you do not give me the authority to remove the _bastards _that kill women and children in the gutters, I will do so by more unsavory means."

"Are you threatening me?" Alistair huffed.

"No, my liege," the elf gave a wicked smile. "I'm warning you of what will happen."

"Is this _another _scheme of Mahariel's? Does she know you're doing this?"

"Change must come, Alistair," Zevran said in a deceptively soft tone. "Racism and prejudice must end. That is what this entire war is about: changing the world for the better."

The fact that he did not answer the question didn't escape Alistair as he stared out the window. Often it bothered him that he was not aware of everything in his kingdom. He didn't know what life was like beneath the streets, but he figured it was not perfect. Incredibly lacking. Mahariel and Zevran played such power games with him, as if they were the puppeteers and he was just another marionette. Maybe he was.

He tried to think of a counter-argument but fell flat. Misconceptions and fear fueled racism. People once thought that women were not equals in battle, but they proved the rest wrong, didn't they? Some of the most resilient people he knew were women. Some of the strongest, cleverest people he knew were elves. No one deserved to die because of who they were. The nobles didn't revolt so much when Alistair made Mahariel his official advisor. They didn't put up a fight when she was declared Arlessa of Amaranthine. Perhaps this would be no different.

"Okay," he swallowed. "All right. I'll do it. Tomorrow, though, not today."

"As soon as possible," insisted Zevran. "So that the necessary changes can be made."

"Fine."

* * *

><p><strong>I've been watching Supernatural on Netflix, and I am in love. So I wandered away for a minute. Thanks for reading. Review for another chapter.<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: It's Almost Easy**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair**

**A/N: Thanks for Reading.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter<span>11

"How is she?" Alistair asked as Hawke softly shut the door to one of the guest rooms on the second floor. Inside Bethany dozed lightly, swaddled in warm blankets and curled in on herself. Hawke could still feel the silky texture of her clean hair from when she dragged the jeweled brush gently through it, could still smell the fruity perfume of a fresh bath lingering on her skin.

"Tired but sated," Hawke answered with a quick smile. "I think she'll be all right once she rests."

"Zevran is gone," Fenris announced, his jaw clenched, nose wrinkled. He hadn't been sleeping well the last few nights since Isabela arrived with bottle in hand, ready to drink them all under the table or die trying. Even Hawke was suffering from a slight headache from the night before. "He and Mahariel have taken off again."

"No surprise," scowled the king. "Not even blood magic could keep them in one place for too long."

"Where have they gone?" inquired Hawke.

Fenris shrugged with no more to say on the topic. Where the rogues scampered off to was anyone's guess, though Hawke did feel some surprise that they had not stayed longer. After all, Zevran was just announced as the new captain of the guard. Despite his carefree attitude and generally lackadaisical style, he didn't seem the type to abandon duty so quickly, especially after he argued with Alistair over the position in the first place. Then again, Hawke didn't know him that well, and it was her bet that Mahariel could convince him to go anywhere she wanted.

Alistair shifted on the spot, rubbing at the back of his neck and closing hims eyes. For hours he'd been training outside, and the scent of sweat and fresh air still clung to him. His hair was mussed and hung limply over his forehead, drops of clear condensation sprinkled over his armor, an result of staying outside in the miserable drizzle falling lightly over the city of Denerim. His newly found interest in training did not seem completely genuine to Hawke; she figured his disappearance was related to Bethany's return.

Zevran brought the mage up from the bowels of the city while the sun was still rising, drowning the cool morning in bright pinks and bloody reds. Hawke was told she crawled from the haven like a mole, blinking at the intensity of light after so long in darkness. When she arrived at the palace doors, she was thinner than even at the wedding ceremony and so pale that the thin, delicate blue veins in her wrists and neck were startlingly vivid beneath her translucent skin. When the two sisters embraced, the intimate and personal nature of the moment must have swung sharply into focus for him, because he excused himself quickly and quietly. Hawke hadn't seen him all day, and she felt his respect for her privacy acutely.

"Well," Alistair cleared his throat, "I have paperwork to do, and I should probably clean myself up a little. Not exactly presentable, am I?"

She stood on her toes to press a kiss to his damp cheek. "I'll see you at dinner, then."

"Right," he flushed a little, smiling before excusing himself. Fenris watched him go with hawk-like precision, body tense and aware. For whatever reason, he didn't seem capable of letting down his guard even around Alistair despite the king's constant reliability and kindness toward him. Still, it was Fenris's way, she supposed and watched with a sort of secret relish when he melted into a relaxed stance with her as Alistair rounded the corner out of sight.

The silence lasted for only a moment before she flashed him a smile and asked, "How are you, Fenris?"

"Adjusting," he admitted after a second of consideration. "I still do not like it here."

She frowned at that, tugging absently on her ear. "Well, I know that I was the one that asked you to stay, but if it ever became too much..."

His eyes flashed, emotions passing too quickly for her to discern before he settled on slight irritation. "I'm an adaptable creature, Hawke, and I have nowhere else to be."

"I wasn't doubting your ability to cope," she assured him, reaching out to pat him on the back, letting her fingers trail over the slight curve in his spine. He was always slouching. "And I _am_glad you're here. Don't think I'm not."

The elf moved away from her gentle hand, probably uncomfortable. Fenris was considerate when it came to her need to touch in order to communicate, but he wasn't overly indulgent. A brush of a hand, a bump against his shoulders, or a rare hug: these were acceptable in minute amounts. She curled her fingers midair and let her fist stay there for a moment, biting her lower lip. "Do they still hurt?" she asked instead of an apology, referring to his markings.

"A little," he breathed, "but it's better. I told you it would improve."

"I believe you," she said immediately. "You know yourself best."

As he mulled over her words, always taking his time with a reply, she cast a glance at the long hallway they were in. With Bethany sleeping, she had no other duties to attend to. Until the letter arrived from Orlais—the one that declared war or begged for another treaty—she and Alistair were officially retired from any sort of royal duties. The kingdom was prosperous, at least on the surface. Word had not yet reached the nobles of Zevran's promotion, so they were not even having a fit about that yet. No one wanted to talk strategy just yet. Alistair was signing petitions and reading over petty grievances that the upper class threw at him daily. He signed property rights and gave away loans from the treasury to those who thought to invest it. It was a singular man job, and she couldn't really help.

Not that she really understood all of it. As Viscountess, she worked mostly on settling disputes between minor lords and working with the chantry on dowries and marriage contracts. She helped the chantry record deaths and births and kept a general eye on the market in Kirkwall. None of it was overly complicated, and certainly none of it could potentially start a war if done incorrectly. Alistair's work could and had in the past. So she was very happy to keep her ignorance to herself until a later date and let him and Eamon play politics. If they needed someone persuaded in a specific direction or slaughtered, they knew where to find her.

"Is Bethany suffering any lasting damage?" came the gravelly voice of her elven companion, and she crossed her arms and tried to hide her surprise at his question.

"Physically, probably not," she answered him, glancing a the door where her sister lay. "I don't know about mentally. I can't really explain it, but she just seemed so exhausted. Not tired but completely put out. Just...listless. Depressed, even. She kept drifting off while I was talking to her."

Fenris inclined his head, considering. "Bethany is strong," he said at last, attempting to appear reassuring.

"I know," the queen relented, the worry not entirely disappearing from her brow. At least her sister was safe. In the end, that was what mattered. It was why she sent Bethany away in the first place. It was also why when Nathaniel proposed the arrangement—that Bethany could stay in the castle as long as she would act as a soldier above ground from now on –Hawke jumped at the chance to have her somewhere within her sights at last as everything came to a breaking point.

Hawke began walking, needing to be away from the guest bedroom. Needing to do something with her time. Fenris followed after a moment's hesitation. "Maker willing, she'll recover from this whole ordeal. It does bring up concerns about the state of the Underground, though, doesn't it?"

"Mahariel would probably not take kindly to your interference."

"I'm not going to interfere," she explained, turning left. "I don't know what's going on down there. I would be a terrible leader for those people, living in luxury the way I do. That was always best left to the eccentrics, the people unafraid to do what was necessary."

"Like Anders?" Fenris quirked a brow at her, and she felt her face heat up.

"I didn't really mean it like that."

Great bay windows came into focus as they turned yet another corner, the gold curtains billowed by an unseen force. Grey and black clouds cluttered the sky, blocking out the sun. The surface of the glass was coated in fat droplets of rain and condensation, the water sliding down and creating streaks the servants would have to buff out later. Hawke frowned as they passed by.

"Is Isabela still asleep?"

Fenris shrugged. "She probably will be until nightfall. That's usually her way."

"Did she stay with you last night or not?"

He appeared uncomfortable for a moment before it disappeared behind a mask of slight annoyance. "She is asleep in my bed, but I did not stay with her."

Hawke was mildly surprised. Isabela was a hard woman to resist, especially given how intoxicated Fenris was the night before. "Where did you sleep, then?"

"In another room," he answered vaguely.

Isabela had come in off the docks with a grand and drunken reunion in mind, similar to those lazy nights they spent in the Hanged Man when no immediate wars lurked on the horizon, and the future was spread out before them with a million possibilities. At the pirate's behest, they locked themselves away from the nosing castle staff and holed up Fenris's room for three or four hours. Even the king joined them. They played cards, laughed until their cheeks ached, and swallowed enough rum to knock out a full-sized bronto. In the end, Alistair helped Hawke stumble up to her room and put her to bed before heading off to his own.

Since Isabela had been purring and pawing at Fenris all night, Hawke assumed that they would eventually end up in bed together. Of course, Fenris had a will of iron, and if he didn't want to bed her, he wouldn't. But Isabela was the perfect picture of a lustful and willing partner, and Hawke couldn't fathom why he would turn her down. None of her business, anyway.

"I'll set up a room for her tonight," Hawke said. "It's not fair of her to just take over like that."

He gave a soft, dark laugh. "Very little is fair these days."

Quirking a sad smile, Hawke shouldered open a door. "I'll give you that one."

Fenris stopped in the doorway as she stepped carefully over the dip in the floor that lead toward the map of Ferelden. "War room?" he asked.

Hawke bent beneath the table and grabbed the neck of a dark green bottle, setting it hard on the table. "Do you know the best cure for a headache after drinking?"

His silence told her that he did not.

"Never stop drinking," she said, tugging on the already-open bottle and turning to extract two glasses from the cabinet behind her.

"You've started hiding whiskey bottles around the castle?"

"No," she said truthfully, pouring him a small glass and sliding it toward him. One of the wood figurines fell onto its side as it came into contact with the moving object. "It's Alistair's. The other night I was wandering around and saw him through the doorway there. Just drinking and staring at this map." Her father's face flashed before her eyes, Malcolm reading beside the fireplace with a book in his lap, glass of whiskey in his hand. Hawke in her nightgown watching with a prideful sorrow.

"A large weight is on his shoulders," remarked Fenris, not touching his glass even as she knocked hers back in one gulp. "Distress is the normal response."

Pouring herself another drink, she left the bottle on the table and sank into one of the armchairs near the wall. "I appreciate the comfort, Fenris," she saluted him with the glass, folding her legs onto the seat of the chair and tucking her dress carefully over her bare skin. Strange how she never used to wear dresses, but it had become the norm for her to slip one on after a bath or to sleep at night.

His brow furrowed. "Do you need it?"

"The comfort?" she sipped at her drink. "Maybe, but words are empty. The fact that you're here is more than enough." Languidly, she splayed her fingers, palm up, and looked pointedly at him. The hint of a smile lurked in his eyes as he sighed and grabbed his drink. When he sat in the chair beside hers and laced their fingers, it felt like a victory. Her heart thrummed pleasantly in her chest, warmth settling in her belly. "You indulge me too much, my friend." She smiled lazily at him, her cheek pressed against the back of the chair.

"I know," he admitted.

For a while they stayed like that, basking silently in each other's company. A steady throb of lyrium pushed against her skin, the markings on his fingers as alive and vibrant as the rest of them. Very carefully, she would stroke her thumb against them, mindful of the way he shivered but did not pull away. She knew, because he had confessed long ago, that it did not _hurt_him. Only the _memory_ of the pain lingered, and he tensed in preparation for a searing sensation that never came.

Eventually their Eden was disturbed by Alistair who walked briskly into the room as if on a mission. "What is it?" Hawke asked, sitting upright.

"You have to wake Bethany," he pleaded. "There's something wrong with Mahariel."

* * *

><p>Bethany was not asleep when Hawke came to wake her. Instead, she was picking through the contents of a nearby vanity, a brush half-raised as if she meant to run it through her hair. Quick as an arrow, she caught the urgency in the air and set everything down, reaching for the shawl thrown over the foot of the bed. She slipped quickly into her shoes, and the sisters, followed closely by Alistair and Fenris, headed down a flight of stairs to another room where Mahariel lay unconscious on a settee.<p>

The last time Bethany saw the hero, she was not quite so thin. Her skin, which was once nearly bronze and then turned lighter with the Blight, was a sickly white, pale as the washed-out moon. The bloody red of the pillow beneath her head only served to be a shocking contrast to her severe lack of color. Bethany kneeled and checked her temperature, noting that she was cool rather than warm or feverish. Her lips were the palest of pinks, as if she were wearing white lipstick.

"What happened?" the mage asked of Zevran who lurked in the darkness of the unlit room with anxiety written into the set of his shoulders.

"We were arguing in the barracks," he said wearily, heaving a sigh. "I said terrible things. She left in a rage. The guards—they're the ones who saw her fall."

"Is it...?" Hawke reached out and squeezed Bethany's shoulder. "It can't be the Blight. Not already... She hasn't been infected long enough. Right?" Alistair's shock offered no answer to his wife's emotional question. Bethany smoothed her hand over Mahariel's forehead. No perspiration. No signs of distress. She peeled back her heavy eyelids, noting the sleeplessness almost absently, and conjured a ball of fire in her hands. The pupils contracted normally.

"Help me move her to the bed," Bethany nodded at the luxurious piece of furniture on the slightly raised dais at the north side of the room, and Zevran slipped his arms beneath his lover and carted her like a lifeless doll to a more comfortable place.

"She just fell?" Hawke bit her lip. "There was nothing else?"

"I didn't see it," said Zevran, arms crossed. "That boy, the young and talkative one always by the barracks, what is his name?"

"Alec?" supplied Fenris.

"It was him."

"When was the last time she ate?" requested Bethany in a soft voice as she felt for a pulse and arranged Mahariel's hands across her flat stomach. Ribs poked through the thin skin, as emaciated as Bethany ever was. She supposed that a hero didn't have time for mortal concerns. Besides that, Mahariel did whatever the refugees did. If they slept on the ground, so did she. If they starved, she did.

"Wine," Zevran answered, reaching out to brush his fingers across her collarbone, "whiskey, but no food. I haven't seen her eat in a week."

"That doesn't mean she hasn't," Alistair argued. "I know Mahariel. She's not suicidal. She's eaten, surely. Zevran isn't always with her, anyway. He's been busy the past few days."

Her breath came steadily and unhindered. Whatever made her drop into sleep didn't seem to be making itself evident. Bethany summoned a healing power and passed it over the elf's heart, feeling the pulse beating in her ears, magnified by the magic. Healthy heart pumping healthy blood through healthy veins, only a slight corrosion associated with, she guessed, the Darkspawn blood that poisoned her whole body.

The magic dispersed, and Bethany glanced up. With some surprise, she noted that Alistair's arm was wrapped around her sister's waist as he looked on with concern. "Let me examine her in private," the mage said, a sudden desire to be alone surrounding her like a thick blanket.

"Let me stay," Zevran frowned, again snapping out of his own guilty silence to assert himself. There was real pain written on his face, a terrible rigidity to his posture. Bethany felt as though she should reveal that no matter what he had said to her, it was unlikely that—with starvation, bad blood, and insomnia starring as potential assailants—he was actually the one to cause her condition.

Then she remembered for a moment the sight of Hawke gashed open and bleeding like a filleted fish on Anders' operation table in that filthy little clinic in Darktown. Phantom fingers squeezed hers, the sight of her sister's bloodless lips moving without a sound flashing through her mind and then leaving as quickly as the vision appeared. Back then there was the overwhelming desire to do _something_, to affect and cause change to Hawke's wound. To _help _even when an older and more experienced healer was running himself ragged to do just that. Bethany nodded slowly, as if in a daze, in acquiescence.

"We'll go," Hawke tugged on Alistair's arm toward the doorway. Fenris slid effortlessly out behind them, a specter just along for the ride.

Once they were gone, Bethany unbuckled the carapace clinging to Mahariel's petite shoulders. She reached out without looking and lit the wick of a lamp nearby. "Zevran, please open the curtains." The light was too pale; she needed to see.

* * *

><p>Hawke was seated on the window sill, bare foot propped up and knee crooked as she rubbed the oil over her bow in slow swiping motions. After years of use, the symbols carved deeply into the handle were nearly smoothed away, and she hooked her fingers into the familiar grooves. Master Ilen had crafted the bow from ironbark after she fetched the correct materials for him, and the words he put into the length of the bow were elvhen symbols meant for protection.<p>

Alistair tilted his head and chewed on the end of his quill. Every few minutes, his eyes flew to the door as if expecting news. Mahariel was still asleep for completely unknown reasons. It was Hawke's bet that the woman was simply exhausted. In the early days, when she was a refugee and still trying to make a name for herself, she often took a bottle of wine, downed it, and fell into a fitful rest for hours and hours. Sometimes the body just needed to recover. No doubt the elf had been under continuous strain the last few weeks.

As for Zevran, he had appeared only long enough to gently catch the sleeve of a passing maid and ask her to bring some warm water. Then he'd gone back into the room without a word. Bethany told them that results were inconclusive, and she needed more time. They might as well go on with their lives until a diagnosis was reached. Hawke was no healer, nor did she ever bother to pick up any tricks from Anders or Bethany. What she knew condensed simply into: if it bled, patch it. If it bled a lot, stitch it, then patch it. If it bled too much, pray to the Maker that a healer could patch it.

"She'll be all right," Hawke tried to offer words of comfort. "She's probably just exhausted. Anyone who's looked at her can see how worn out she is."

Alistair dropped his quill and rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm not so sure. She's just…always sick. This is the first time she's actually, well, collapsed, but I've seen her stumble. Can you imagine? She's _Dalish_; they don't _trip_."

"Maybe," replied his wife, setting her bow beside. She slid her hands down over his shoulders and kneaded the tense muscle there gently. "Bethany's one of the best healers I know. If she can find out what's wrong, she can fix it. She was second only to Anders, really." And Anders _was _the best. He'd sealed up wounds that Bethany wouldn't touch, gashes and cuts that Hawke was sure were fatal.

"This is all probably just a dream," he cocked his head to the side. "Any minute now a troupe of circus dwarves are going to burst into this room and offer me plates of fine cheese. Then I'll wake up with no pants on and Mahariel's blasted hound licking my face."

Hawke smiled slightly, digging her thumbs into the back of his neck. "I think you're worrying yourself over nothing," she murmured in his ear. "I also think it's rather cute."

"I'm a caring person, what can I say?" he joked, moaning low into his throat when she pressed hard into the slope of his spinal column. "That…uh, feels good."

"You need to relax," Hawke chuckled. "You're far too tense for all this paperwork."

"It's not just that. It's the war, Mahariel, Zevran, this…our _arrangement_. I've got Eamon breathing down my neck and dozens of nobles to please. There are treaties, meetings, committees, the alienage…Maker, a man could go mad trying to keep track of all this nonsense."

"I know what you mean," she said. "Viscountess is no leisurely stroll through the market district." Seneschal Bran had been, with a copious raise, convinced to handle her paperwork while she was gone for the wedding and then her coronation, but his generosity—and hers—would not last forever. Eventually the pay would stop, and the letters and deeds and treaties would come. She'd have to go back to Kirkwall in the summer or spring to deal with things and set up Kirkwall to last another few months without her. If necessary, she would have to appoint a new Viscount to handle affairs.

"I've been doing it for years. I should be better at this," he admitted.

"Well," she pushed further with the pads of her fingers, feeling the tension ease out of him, "we _are_ on the brink of war."

"The Blight was far more frightening than this," he huffed. "The Orlesians can be bartered with, and they'll surrender eventually. Darkspawn have no concept of mercy or retreat."

"So you'll be a good general because you've trained in worse circumstances."

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "You have a really optimistic view of the world."

"No, I don't," she sighed. "In fact, I'm a terrible pessimist. I'm just trying to make you feel better. Is it working?"

"A little."

"Look, I'm no Blight expert," she leaned in closer, "but it seems to me that there's a standard time limit of living before you take the walk into the Deep Roads. You said so yourself. As far as I know, it's only been a little over a decade since you stopped the Blight. That's not thirty years."

"I know, but who's to say? The way she runs herself ragged..."

Hawke almost scoffed at how familiar an argument that was. Once upon a time, she'd said the same thing to Bethany in regard to Anders. The way he ran himself about all the time, the tired look to his eyes, the way he was always on edge...he was burning out his own life source as if there were no tomorrow. Sleep and food and pleasure were all trivialities that other people lived without, and he could, too. Even if it killed him.

"Bethany will figure it out," said Hawke. "That's all I can say."

"I appreciate your trying."

"Eh, that's what I'm here for," she squeezed his shoulders. "That and emptying your wine cellars."

"Oh, that's an idea I can get behind," called a voice from the doorway. Hawke glanced up in surprise only to roll her eyes immediately afterward. Isabela lounged casually against the framework dressed in a nightgown of Hawke's that hugged her bosom far too tightly and accentuated her curves in dark blue taffeta with white lace. The shawl she wore was nothing Hawke had ever seen but was made of transparent silk and did nothing to cover the sensuous flesh of her soft upper arms and slender neck.

"Is that my nightgown? And my shoes?" demanded Hawke, staring at the azure slippers.

"Well, I can't very well walk around the castle naked, can I?"

"You might as well be," snapped the queen. "Stay out of my drawers, Isabela. I mean it. We are _not _the same size, no matter what sort of corset you wear."

Pushing dramatically off the wall, she came further into the room and plopped down in the chair in front of Alistair's desk. "She's such a spoilsport, isn't she?" Isabela asked him. "I can't imagine why you married her."

"Oh, mostly for the notoriety. And the riches."

"He _does_ have a sense of humor," the pirate proclaimed with a little shock as she picked up a quill and inspected the tip. "How novel."

Alistair pulled a piece of parchment toward him and began writing again. Hawke let her hands linger on his shoulders for a moment longer before walking around the desk to sit by Isabela. The pirate leaned back and crossed her legs, letting the quill hang limply from her fingers. "I hear old Mahariel's down for the count. That's a shame."

"Not for long," murmured Hawke. "Bethany's going to heal her."

"Isn't that peachy?" Isabela sighed. "So far this day's just grand. I don't even know if I slept with Fenris last night. Haven't even seen him."

Alistair's head shot up in surprise. "No! You didn't, did you?"

"No, she didn't," said Hawke a little defensively. "He went elsewhere. I'm going to have Marni set up a bedroom for you in the guest quarters. You should leave him alone, Isabela. He's got a lot on his mind."

"Aren't you just so prickly today?" huffed the pirate. "Since when do you get off on giving orders?"

Hawke rolled her eyes and gripped the arms of the chair. "I think I'm going to poke around in the kitchens for lunch. Anyone want to join me?"

"Yes, please," said Rivaini, launching herself up and over to the door. Hawke followed after, waving tiredly at Alistair as she slipped out the door and into the cool hallway.

* * *

><p>When Mahariel awoke it was in a dark and unfamiliar room with a well-tended fire roaring in the grate and a very heavy blanket piled on top of her naked body. She felt leaden and filthy with dried sweat, as though she had just survived a deathly fever. There was a dull pain in the back of her head and a gnawing hunger in her gut. She shifted and sat up, rubbing at the tender part of her skull where the ache seemed to originate.<p>

A chair creaked in the corner. "_Mi amore_," Zevran sighed in relief as he sank next to the bed, hand closing around her leg, "you will be the death of me."

"Highly unlikely," she frowned, "given the other threats you face. What happened?"

Guilt shifted in his eyes. "Our argument, you remember? You left the barracks and went outside. The guards said you fell over without warning."

She barked a short laugh, bitter and raspy. "What a way to go," she sneered, folding the blanket closer to her bare chest. The heat of the room seemed to be perfectly adjusted to accommodate her state of undress, though why she was unclothed was the real question. "Why am I naked?"

"Believe it or not, it is hard to examine a body when she is dressed in heavy armor," he tilted his head to a chair where her dragonbone gear glinted with cold magic put in place by Sandal so many years ago. She had several sets of armor hanging on stands in their room, two very ornate and heavily enchanted, but the dragonbone was her favorite. It was the first item she'd ever bought for herself, twenty sovereigns given to Wade to make it perfect. It was also the armor she wore while delivering the killing blow to the archdemon.

"So what is wrong with me? I don't feel particularly ill."

"When was the last time you ate, _mi amore_?" asked Zevran, his thumb caressing her leg lightly. She frowned, trying to remember.

"This morning," she answered, the implication of his question coming to her a moment later. "You're not accusing me of starving myself? I _do _eat. Quickly, but it is done. You've _seen _it."  
>"Hush, lover," he said, fingers leaving her leg and coming to grip her hand gently. The heat of his body nearly scorched her, and she flinched slightly in surprise at the difference between them. "This is not an interrogation, merely the means of a diagnosis."<p>

She narrowed her eyes. "If anything you should be looking toward the Blight. That's where most of the cause for the sickness of Grey Wardens lies."

"You are too young," he told her. "Grey Wardens don't die from the Blight at thirty."

The door opened without ceremony, and Bethany approached the bed with a mug in her hand and a seriousness marring her pretty face. She was cleaner than the last time Mahariel saw her, obviously taken care of by the maids in the house or even Hawke herself. A book hung limply from her other hand, and she passed the mug to Mahariel who took it with shaking hands.

"I believe I have our answer, and I can't believe I didn't think of it before," said the mage quietly, her voice rough from disuse. Somehow it seemed out of place. "Drink that; it's medicinal."

Mahariel sipped at the lukewarm liquid and winced at the bitter taste. Elfroot and something spicy. "Yes, it tastes like it."

"What is that?" asked Zevran, referring to the book.

"One of Varric's novels," Bethany answered, setting it down on Mahariel's lap. "In it, the wife of a wealthy nobleman and a gardener have an affair. Everything is going just fine. The husband doesn't suspect a thing. Then the wife is out watering her garden one day and suddenly passes out for no reason. Do you know why?"

Mahariel gestured uselessly. "Should I? How much time do you think I spend reading?"

With utmost seriousness, Bethany met her eyes and said, "Because the wife is pregnant."

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry. There was something wrong with the site. I couldn't upload. On a sad note for anyone who actually cares about this story, ME3 is coming out tomorrow, and I will be spending every last bit of free time I have saving the universe from total destruction. So the next update will be late, but it will come. Thanks for reading. Review if you want more.<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

**Title: It's Almost Easy**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair**

**A/N: Thanks for Reading.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter<span>12

Several Months Later…

"They really are quite marvelous under his command, aren't they?" asked Hawke, appearing suddenly beside Alistair and glancing out over the battlements. Vast columns of heavily armored soldiers were stretched across the frozen training ground below, helmets turned upwards and saluting the royal pair dutifully. Zevran was proudly presenting them after months of replacements and conditioning, strutting like a satisfied rooster near the castle gate directly opposite the king and queen.

Alistair nodded slightly, gloved hand squeezing the railing. "I just hope they're as good as he thinks they are. The situation is quickly getting out of control."

Denerim was absolutely overflowing with refugees since the boats began arriving only a short month ago, the seal of Orlais emblazoned upon the grand wooden sides. The sanitariums and jails were overwhelmed all across Ferelden, the boarding houses packed full with twitchy little mages _and_their friends _and_their families. Danger was more prevalent in the streets than ever before, an entire segment of the enormous mage population completely unregulated and incredibly vulnerable to demonic influences. Just a week previously, Alistair had called in the Templars in a desperate attempt to gain some semblance of control.

Mahariel's mouth twitched in into something vaguely resembling approval, crossing her arms over her chest. She lifted her hand and gave a curt salute at Zevran, which he returned with a flamboyant bow following. "Anything would be better than those bullying templars," she inched closer to Alistair, turning her brilliant eyes on him.

"I agree," said Hawke, sliding her hand over the king's shoulder and squeezing lightly. "Let's give them a try." She shot a glance over her shoulder to see Bethany staring dreamily into the air, her fingers curled lightly over the edge with her ebony hair blowing around in the wind. "For the mages if for nothing else."

"For the mages," Alistair agreed, standing straight as her hand fell away. Zevran lifted his chin proudly, meeting the king's gaze. Something passed between them then, and Alistair gave an almost imperceptible nod in acknowledged of the assassin's efforts. There was a bellowing order, and the men let their salutes drop and turned back to their captain.

Bethany murmured lightly, "I should examine you, Mahariel, before you disappear again."

The elf touched the slight swell of her belly gingerly through the soft mesh of her cotton blouse though it was certainly in no danger from the slight pressure of her very small fingers. Mahariel often treated the evidence of her pregnancy as though it were a wound—afraid to poke and prod at it but genuinely curious about its progression. "Fine," she said after a moment.

She was supposed to be on strict house arrest, a sentence Zevran vehemently endorsed despite the fact that he was already incredibly busy and could not handle all the responsibilities that came with assuming Mahariel's work and his own at the same time. Bethany's medical recommendations went unheeded most of the time, however, and Mahariel often slipped away for hours nearly every day. Where she went was a mystery, but Zevran knew of it and didn't seem to care much. Alistair asked every once in a while, but he was always met with a cryptic answer and a disapproving frown at his prying.

Bethany drifted again, closing her eyes and tilting her head. Hawke worried about her. Since her ascent from the underground haven, she'd become spacey and distant. Most days she stayed in the library with her back against the wide windows, not reading anything but simple sitting with her hands folded on her lap, head cocked as if listening to a tune the rest of them couldn't hear. If time wasn't so very precious, Hawke would have asked a doctor to examine her.

But time _was _precious. While Hawke had been incredibly bored with her new position in the beginning, she missed that freedom now. She and Alistair spent nearly every night brainstorming new ways to shift the mage and refugee population. They had to deal with food shortages, disease, overcrowding, violence, and theft. The nobles were throwing a right fit about the men and women camped out on their luxurious doorsteps and clambering for alliances in the wake of the coming war. More gossip and intrigue and conspiracies drifted on the wind that any actual talk. Hawke's life had been threatened twice already. It was a nightmare.

It wasn't all bad, though. This new crisis had succeeded where Hawke's efforts had not, and she and Alistair shared something of a friendship now. Of course, she still kissed him whenever she dared—lightly, not anything quite so wanton as that night in the bathhouse—but they didn't exactly have time for romance when they were both trying to run the kingdom. Alistair seemed grateful for the fact and was far less nervous around her because of it. At least, he'd stopped acting as though she were going to pounce from the shadows. Hawke was slightly disappointed, but the feeling never lingered for long. There were far more important things to worry about.

As the men marched out of the courtyard, ready to be deployed to various points around the city, Hawke shielded her eyes and glanced up at the sun. Fall was coming, and there was a slight chill in the air. Alistair sighed and rubbed at his tired eyes. "You need sleep," she said. "You run yourself ragged."

"Sleep is for the weak-willed. As is eating. And drinking. Breathing? That's _very _weak. Not essential to life _at all_," he shot her a weary smile, and she crossed her arms, fighting back her own.

Mahariel cast a fond glance at him. "Your wife is right, Alistair. You should nap awhile."

He shot a suspicious frown at her. "Yeah, right, so that you can sneak off to wherever it is you go. I'm dumb, but I'm not a complete idiot."

Hawke placed a hand on his hair, feeling the texture of the silky locks. He'd had it cut recently, and it stuck up at every odd end possible. It made him look boyish and unruly, but she liked it. "She'll go anyway," the queen argued reasonably. "You might as well indulge. For now, Zevran has this covered."

"You will be an incredibly weak-willed man if you collapse in the middle of the throne room," the elf tugged at her ear lobe. Straightening, she made her way toward the door. "Come, Bethany, if you want to examine me. It's cold up here."

The mage followed wordlessly, the blankness of her gaze sending a chill up Hawke's spine so fierce that she had to turn away. Alistair gripped her wrist in sympathy, seeing the pain cross her face. Once the two of them were gone, and the door shut softly behind them, she buried her head into her hands.

"Maker, if I don't get a night of sleep, _I _might collapse," she admitted, jamming the heels of her palms against her sore eyelids.

"We should stop staying up so late," he offered. "Call it in a little earlier."

"We _could_ if that was even a possibility," she sighed. "There's not enough time in the bloody day. Maker's sake, who decided that sundown should come so soon?"

"The Maker?"

"Shut up," she smacked him lightly. The last of the men were leaving through the gates. A few were wandering back to the barracks, chatting lightly to themselves. Hawke began to feel the cold. "We should go inside. I'm sure you have paperwork or something. I've got letters to write."

"Ah," he scowled. "There's always paperwork to be done, meetings to attend. I think I might actually go take a nap."

"Careful," she admonished. "The kingdom might just fall apart without you."

"Sod it," he stretched, a yawn finding its way into his throat. "I'm going. There's nothing you can do to stop me."

Hawke laughed a little, fiddling with the ring on her finger. "I won't stop you," she said. "I promise."

* * *

><p>"For Andraste's sake," Isabela whined as she flopped gracelessly into a nearby chair, nearly spilling the glass of wine she carried all down the front of her white blouse, "you're so bossy. I <em>just <em>got back from the routine traipse into that sewer tunnel, which is absolutely overrun with mages, and you want me to go down to the docks?"

"There are crates of food down there," Mahariel hissed, her patience in dealing with Isabela drained long ago. Convincing her to follow orders was more difficult than fighting darkspawn. She was lazy and self-centered and really had no interest in doing much of anything besides basking in the lap of luxury. "If you don't deliver it, the refugees will steal it, and those mages in the haven have been starving for longer than the ones on the surface."

"All right, all right," she covered her eyes with her hand, massaging her temples. "No need to get snappish, Momma elf."

"My temper has nothing to do with my pregnancy," she shuffled the papers at Zevran's desk, plucking another piece of parchment from the drawer. "You're getting behind on these shipments. Those people have no one else to depend on, Isabela—"

"I know!" the pirate cut her off, sitting forward abruptly. "You don't seem to understand that I have a ship to keep after, the other responsibilities you've hefted on me, and a constant correspondence with the rest of our group to maintain. I haven't had sex in three weeks!"

"Suck it up."

Isabela huffed indignantly but fell silent, sipping at her wine. Mahariel turned her attention back to the letter in front of her, addressed to Varric who was sitting somewhere in Starkhaven with Sebastian. The note was of little importance, simply an inquiry about the capability of a force under the new, bumbling prince. Varric was an honest man with a head for both battle and figures. If anyone could tel her if Sebastian's army could stand up to the Orlesians, it was Varric.

Zevran's various notes littered the desk, little reminders and the like. Sitting on the corner of the desk with a dagger jabbed through it was a small square piece of paper with the crudely drawn figure of a pointy-eared swordsman. He didn't really write much, mostly because he still had trouble with the Ferelden lettering. Besides, he always did like to make his attention very personal. Also, with her pregnancy, he'd been spending less and less time in his office.

_ "You are absolutely certain of this?" demanded Zevran, his fingers pressed tightly to his forehead, face covered in shadows, emotions reeled tightly in. "There is no doubt?"_

_ "There's always doubt until she begins showing," frowned Bethany, weary of explaining the chances that her diagnosis was correct yet again. She was seated calmly in the rocking chair adjacent to the fireplace, the book sitting on her lap, hands folded neatly on top. "To the best of my ability, I believe this is the problem."_

_ "It's impossible," Mahariel protested, leaning over the edge of the bed and tying the strings on her boots. She still felt slightly dizzy, and the hunger in her gut hadn't gone away. The medicinal tea lingered acrid and bitter in her mouth, the spice tingling across her tongue. "I'm a Grey Warden." _

_ Bethany's frowned turned quickly into a scowl, and she sat forward. "So is Alistair," she said, voice clipped. "I'm not an expert on the fertility of Grey Wardens, but it seems as though it is possible. You are pregnant, Mahariel. I can't offer you much else."_

Mahariel's hand went unconsciously toward her stomach, rubbing at the hard bulge there as she tapped the quill against her chin. She hadn't thought much about the baby, honestly, with everything else going on. In the dark of the night, in Zevran's arms, normal, motherly thoughts came to her. Would it be a boy or a girl? Would it have dark, bronzed skin or her own pale complexion? Some exotic and rich combination? His flaxen blonde hair or her too-white silvery blend? But that gentle wondering usually turned into worry about the frightening possibilities of having a child born half-tainted.

Darkspawn or elf? Alive or dead? Grey Warden or no?

She shook the horrors away, focusing on the sound of her quill scratching across the parchment. They would worry about it when the time came closer. As it was, she had too much to do and months still before going into labor. Whether the baby developed correctly or even survived living in her twice-tainted body was up to the Creators or the Maker or whatever, and there was nothing she could do until the time came.

"Have you decided what to name it?" Isabela asked suddenly, her eyes locked on the bulge of Mahariel's stomach.

"We haven't talked about it," she answered dismissively. "Perhaps we will if it survives."

"Oh, come on," she scowled. "It's a baby, not a Darkspawn. You might as well think about it."

"You have a shipment to pick up, Isabela."

"Fine, if you're going to be that way," she replied, setting down her empty glass quite harshly before grabbing her crumpled backpack sitting by the door and leaving. The room settled without her intruding presence, melted back into the familiar, quiet surroundings of Zevran's office. Mahariel settled further into her chair, pushing back a stray lock of hair that was too long and should have been cut ages ago to keep it from getting in her eyes.

She would spend the next few minutes or so finishing up her letters and then don her too-tight armor and black cloak to roam amongst the coughing, sickly mages that wandered the backstreets like a filthy plague. She would bring water and food and bandages to the dark-skinned mage in the market trying to help his people, a man utterly determined but incredibly overwhelmed. Meanwhile Alistair and Hawke would worry over her, but Zevran would do nothing to stop her despite their complaints.

He would know that she had to help in order to keep functioning.

* * *

><p>Fenris was waiting for Isabela outside the castle gates, his arms crossed over his chest, leaning characteristically against the wall with that typical frown marring his handsome elven face. In the morning sun, there was an attractive glow to his golden skin, sending his snowy hair into an even starker contrast than usual. His armor glinted spiky and malicious, a warning to all who thought to do him harm. When she stopped beside him, he didn't look up, didn't acknowledge her presence with his liquid eyes.<p>

"Do you mind if I accompany you?" he asked quietly, softly as he usually did. Isabela frowned at him in curiosity, because he had never wanted to go before.

"Why?" If there was suspicion coloring her tone, it was not unwarranted. Isabela was a very capable young woman with a crew of thirty to help her carry the crates of food down the narrow path. With Zevran in charge of the guards, she wouldn't even need to use subtlety or persuasion.

The elf tilted his head to the side for a moment and then cast a dark glare upon the castle. "Hawke does not need me today, and I feel myself becoming weaker in this place."

_Ah_, thought Isabela with a grim realization. Everyday Hawke and Alistair grew closer, and Fenris was made to watch it because he had nowhere else to go. At least, he thought he didn't. Isabela would have offered him a place on her ship if she thought for a moment he would abandon Hawke to pursue his own desires. Hawke _was_ his desire, his only one, and not even a husband could sever that.

Unfortunately for Fenris, that undying loyalty would cost him a lot in the end.

"Well," Isabela put her hands on her hips and surveyed the bright sky, pursing her full lips as if mulling his proposition over, "if you really want to, I guess I won't stop you. It's not exactly bandits on the road or anything. We're just picking up a few crates."

There was gratitude shining in his obsidian eyes for just a moment before it disappeared, replaced by a usual emptiness and slight brooding. He nodded and stood straight, shifting the weight of his blade on his back. Isabela moved around him, leading the way toward the docks. She'd have to swing by her ship and pick up some of the men to help. Capable as she was, she couldn't life four or five crates of salted meats and breads and cheeses all by herself in one trip. And as useful as he was, neither could Fenris.

So they stopped at her ship, and she snapped her fingers. Four or five of her men pushed the whores out of their bunks and yanked on some clothing, all tousled hair and bad breath as they met her on the docks. Without a word of complaint, they followed and lifted the boxes. Fenris watched at a distance, brooding as usual. He didn't even give a derisive sneer when Isabela made a lewd joke about men and heavy lifting.

Carrying the boxes down the winding tunnels to the actual haven was the real challenge. For all Mahariel treated it like her sanctuary, it was actually a _sewer_, and it was slimy and smelly and utterly disgusting. More than once Isabela had thrown a good pair of boots out after trudging through the decaying sludge at the bottom of the slick tunnels. The men, as accustomed to sweat and musk as they were, didn't much like it either and grumbled under their breath when a bit of gooey liquid leaked inside their shoes.

Isabela lead with the grumpy elf at her back until the stench became a little fainter, and she could feel the heat of a forge on her skin and smell the stone. The guard nodded to her as she passed, and they carted the boxes in with no problem. The children fell upon them as though they contained chocolate and sweets rather than simple foods like salted meats and moldy cheeses.

Nathaniel appeared from the shadows and extended his hand to her. She flashed her best smile and shook. "Another shipment."

"Mahariel always pulls through," he sighed in relief.

"Yeah, well, things aren't going so well up there," Isabela frowned. "More and more mages seeking refuge."

"Zevran's army is taming them now," he told her. "I've been on the surface today. They're organizing them into small camps, which I guess makes things a little more manageable."

"Hmm."

A slight pause as they watched the older mages pass out the rations, going through with an ease that only comes from practice. The kids lined up and scattered when they received their share, plunking themselves down in corners to negotiate trades. Mahariel told her to bring candy every once in a while for them. Isabela never remembered for some reason.

"How's Mahariel doing, by the way?" Nathaniel's rasping voice called her back. She shrugged.

"Doing fine," she answered vaguely. "She was terribly sharp with me earlier when I asked her what she was going to name the damned thing once it was born. She probably hasn't even though about it."

His soft chuckle surprised her. "That's Mahariel for you," he remarked darkly, "always expecting the worst. I hope it lives, for what it's worth. It would do her good to be wrong for once."

Isabela wasn't so sure that wanting someone to be wrong was a reason to wish for a baby's safe arrival, but she didn't comment. All of them treated it as if it were a darkspawn about to burst forth from Mahariel's stomach in a spray of blood and gunk, ready to crawl from its lifeless mother and devour the entire castle. She didn't. Whatever was in its blood, it was still a baby.

As for it being horribly deformed or evil or whatever, she didn't think that held much truth either. The reason Wardens didn't reproduce obviously had something to do with their incredibly short lifespans and the fear of what might happen to a tainted fetus rather than the fact that it was physically impossible. After learning she was pregnant, Mahariel—aided by Alistair—had searched the Warden archives for any record of such an occurrence taking place before. They'd found nothing, and Isabela chalked that up to a lack of anything extraordinary happening rather than this being the first time a Warden had been careless with her sexual partners.

A young elven girl wrapped her stubby arms around Fenris' leg and hugged tightly, squishing her plump cheek against his knee. Rather than becoming hostile or tensing as Isabela expected him to, he simply raised an eyebrow at the blatant display of affection. The emaciated mother apologized profusely to him and disentangled her daughter from his leg. Fenris' mouth twitched as they departed.

His sudden warming to the mage population had more to do with Hawke than an actual change in his own beliefs. She cared for mages, didn't believe that a person's abilities should isolate them from the rest of society, and he adopted a more open-minded practice to appease her. Isabela figured that seeing the mages he so feared and hated reduced to nothing more than begging vagrants helped a little. He was learning, albeit slowly, that not all mages were greedy, arrogant monsters seeking power. They were just the only ones the general population heard about.

The crates were soon emptied, the people dispersing to various corners, some disappearing down stairwells into darkness. Isabela had never ventured beyond the first floor or even very far out of the entrance to the dwelling. She didn't care to, either. It was her suspicion that those who couldn't walk around the rec room were in no condition to be seen, and she liked her lunch where it was.

Nathaniel cleared his throat, stretching his muscles. He was scruffier every time she saw him, a rather interesting beard growing around his crooked nose and sharp chin. If she was completely honest, it was almost attractive, but she didn't have eyes for him. Like most of the people in Denerim, there was no appetite for fun in his heart. He was too focused on the people starving around him, as she probably should have been.

Isabela was distracted, though, from the heart of the problem. As usual, her own selfish desires tugged at her. Finally, after years of stomping around Kirkwall, the same old ground with the same old people, she had her ship, but Mahariel directed her on how to use it. She wasn't a captain, really, and hadn't been since the elf had contacted her for help.

There was something else, too, that demanded her attention. For years and years she'd sought to break Sebastian's chastity vow. Patience had paid off, _finally_, and she'd coerced him into bed months ago, just after Hawke's wedding. The man hadn't disappointed, all that pent-up desire and suppressed want just boiling over in a single instant. The very memory made her shiver. She wanted more, craved it, dreamed about it. So when she complained about a lack of sex to Mahariel, she wasn't really complaining about _sex_. She was complaining about being grounded here, in Denerim, where Sebastian was _not_.

Fenris stared back at her from the door where her men were filing out, ready to leave. Snapping out of her own thoughts, she glanced about to see that Nathaniel had scampered off. She was leaning against the wall all by herself, lost in dreamland. Seeing that he'd grabbed her attention, Fenris slipped gracefully out of the haven. Isabela heaved a sigh, cast around for one last look, and followed just as morosely as before.

* * *

><p>Jean kept his head held high as he strolled into the throne room, his shoulders straight, chest out. He was the pride of the royal army, a true chevalier who fought with the Grey Wardens during the Blight. If not for Loghain's prejudices and hasty charge toward battle, Jean would have been the general leading the Orlesian forces at the battle of Ostagar. His reputation was one of harsh discipline and progressive results, and the empress knew that. It was why she'd called for him.<p>

The steward at the empress's side fidgeted awkwardly as he approached and seemed to shrink a little when Jean's feet came to a solid stop right at the base of the intricately ornate dais. Celine glanced up from inspecting her polished nails and passed her cloudy eyes over him without a trace of emotion.

Not turning her gaze away, she handed a yellow scroll lightly clasped in her hand to the steward who rushed forward to deliver it to Jean. Curious, Jean peeled back what was left of the wax seal and read the sloping, formal handwriting. As he did, he felt a rush of pure adrenaline accompanied by obligatory disappointment. Despite his impressive military background, he had hoped for peace.

"Well?" the empress scowled, and it ruined her pretty features entirely.

"Should I ready the fleet?"

"You had better," she snapped. "All this talk of peace and tranquility, and the dog lords want to destroy it over a bunch of abominations. Well, I will not stand idly by and let those _monsters _free." She jerked to a standing position and marched down the three steps to his level, the train of her dress glittering with precious gems and trace amounts of sparkling lyrium dust. "I want you to ready every ship we have. I want you to take precious count of our allies and give them whatever they need to join our cause. The Divine will not suffer this...this _heretical _behaviorand neither will I!"

Jean gave a curt nod.

"Louis," she snarled at her steward, "you will write a letter to the Divine telling her of this. Then one to the King of Ferelden declaring war. And summon the rest of my generals to a meeting. If the Fereldens want a fight, they'll get one!"

Jean watched her stomp away with a familiar sensation of regret. He did not like war, hated it to be perfectly honest. Honorable causes he could understand and take up arms for. The Blight, for instance, he fought well in and was proud of his contribution. It was a shame that the empress was such an arrogant young thing without any mind of her own, a brainwashed marionette controlled by the Divine. It was a shame that the Divine was so unwilling to grant freedom to an oppressed people and even more of a monstrosity that she withheld such rights in the Maker's name.

But Jean would never express his opinions to the empress or anyone in power. He was the first general to empress Celine, and his ability to keep his mouth shut and do what he was told was what granted him such a lofty position in the first place. He took another look at King Alistair's signature and ran his thumb lightly across it. A few months old. Expensive parchment. Such a simple phrasing of words with a terrible declaration hidden inside of them. Rolling up the paper, he squashed the wax seal down and placed the scroll in his pocket for safe keeping.

* * *

><p><strong>This is shorter than usual, and I apologize for that. I just wanted to give you something before things get crazier. I have graduation, freshman orientation, AP tests, finals, a driving test, and my birthday all the next thirty-six days. So, we'll just see. Thanks for reading. Once things settle, I will begin posting chapters in earnest again. Review please.<strong>


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter13

Hawke stepped out of the bath and glanced briskly in the mirror, wringing out her hair as she went. Droplets slid over her fingers and onto the stony floor. She grabbed one of the silky robes she'd bought from the marketplace and slid into it, taking one of the candles to light her way as she exited the bathing room. Isabela was reclining in her armchair, sipping at a dark drink and staring idly into the fire.

Having Isabela around was really quite interesting in most respects. Though she was often away, doing errands for Mahariel "against her will", she proved a lovely distraction from Hawke and Alistair's awkward courtship and strenuous duties when she was around. Days after she decided to dock, Hawke had set her up with a guest bedroom down near Fenris', but she scarcely used it. At least, when Hawke went to knock on her door late at night to share a new revelation or just when she was seeking company, the bed was always nicely made and the room was cool and dark.

Isabela glanced up and saluted her with the drink, tucking closer into the back of the chair. "Don't you just look like royalty? Oh, wait..."

Hawke let a small smile pull at her lips. "Feeling bitter today, Rivaini?"

"No," she traced the rim of the glass with a delicate pinky. "I'm just...grounded."

Despite the fact that Isabela reveled in the lavish treatment she received as a guest of the queen of Ferelden, she made it no secret that she wasn't satisfied with life on land. Her ship was at the docks just sitting in port, the captain busy with other obligations. It didn't matter that here she was practically royalty herself or that she always had a glass of wine in her hand or that she could sleep in a bed that didn't rock or threaten to toss her out; she didn't prefer it over the grit and grime of her own ship and her own crew.

Hawke picked up the bottle sitting next to her on an end table idly and turned it over. It was half empty and smelled like grapes. "Good year," she noted, thumb passing over the dusty label.

"I have impeccable taste."

Hawke agreed, setting the bottle down. The fire roared in the grate, warmth flooding the room and fighting off the fall chill. Marni was pulling back the blankets from the corner of Hawke's bed where they were tucked, patting them into place for her to slip easily in whenever she felt like it.

"Where's Fenris?"

"Walked off after we fetched the crates," she shrugged as if it made no difference to her. Hawke bit her lower lip in concern. He grew ever more distant with her and the castle. She knew he chafed under the leash of the royal court, but he had nowhere else to go. That was her fault, but she didn't know how to fix it.

Marni slipped quietly out of the room, as quickly as she came, and Hawke felt a sleepy haze spreading into her limbs. Isabela wouldn't mind if she went to sleep, would probably continue drinking and thinking until morning came or slink away into the night as was her custom. Hawke took a seat opposite her, settling into the plush chair and massaging the ball of her left foot with careful fingers.

"How goes the husband?" Isabela asked idly.

"Awkward, slow, building," she muttered truthfully. Alistair was accepting of her presence, kind to her at all times, and had warmed to the small touches and light brushing of lips whenever they were alone. That didn't mean that he was ready to jump into bed with her and reproduce, but it was progress. Hawke was happy with it, all things considered. They really didn't have time to be tangled sweaty in the sheets with the world on the brink of war, anyway.

"You going to sleep soon?"

"Alistair thought it'd be a good idea," Hawke said, "if we took the night off."

Isabela hummed in response, swirling her wine. She stretched one long leg out, pointing the toe of her boot toward the hearth. "I suppose I should be heading back to the ship..."

"You could stay in the castle, Isabela," Hawke said. "That was the whole point of us setting up a guest room for you. To, you know, sleep in?"

"Oh, is that what that was for? Thank you for clearing that up."

"What's wrong?" asked Hawke, crossing her legs and gripping the arms of her chair. "You don't like it? Or is it something else?" She was being uncharacteristically distant, as though her mind were preoccupied.

The pirate wrapped her long fingers around the wine glass, worn leather gloves creaking as she did so. She looked so tired, like the rest of them felt, drained and entirely hopeless. No doubt the runs were getting to her. Sympathy flooded through Hawke, powerful and resounding. She knew what it was like to see the immense suffering of a people every day, to do what she could and have it not make the slightest bit of difference. Isabela cleared her throat and downed the rest of her wine, lips red with it.

"I'm sorry," she said with a sigh, shoulders slumping. "It's just a lot of things. Fenris, Mahariel, the mages…I haven't had sex in a long time, Hawke, and my men are getting restless at the docks." She tilted her head and then looked at the queen. "Two entirely unrelated things, I assure you," she added with a slight chuckle, weight of the world in her eyes.

Hawke smiled sadly and stood, taking the bottle of wine and kneeling at Isabela's feet. "We've been through worse, you know." She tilted her friend's glass up and poured. "This time…we're all pulling together. This time we have help."

Isabela cupped the glass and bowed her head, laughing softly. "Yeah, I know. It's just getting to me." Gently, she took the bottle from Hawke and instead handed her the glass, a fair trade given that there was at least the same amount of alcohol in each. Tipping the bottle back, she took a swig and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Maybe I should just get really drunk tonight. I mean…Hanged Man drunk. Not like I have anything to do tomorrow. Do you? We could go shopping, you know, deplete the royal treasury and all that."

Patting her on the knee, Hawke stood and set the glass aside. "I can't. Alistair and I are meeting for breakfast. Early. He wants my advice on how to handle the Tevinter magistrates when they come."

"Better put Fenris on a leash."

"I'll send him on an errand," Hawke winced, remembering the last time Fenris lost his temper with a magistrate. Of course, Danarius had been his former master, a tyrant, and a monster, but Fenris did tend to paint all his enemies with the same brush. And, given the state of things, they didn't really need him mucking up the meeting with anyone willing to lend a hand. "Something to keep him busy while they're here."

"Good idea," Isabela noted wryly. She paused to sip at her wine before slinking gracefully to her feet and arching her back in a stretch that made her spine pop noisily. There was an uncharacteristic weariness in her face that Hawke noticed suddenly as she turned her back. "I'm going off to the pub, then, I suppose. Gnawed Noble or whatever it's called. Maker, it's been _years_ since I spent this much time in Denerim," she murmured as she walked toward the door. "Wonder if I'm even _allowed_ back in the bathhouses…" She disappeared into the dimly lit hallway still talking to herself, offering a fleeting wave over her shoulder as she went.

Hawke shook her head and hoped that either Isabela would grow accustomed to being landlocked or Mahariel would find a new way to deal with her responsibilities until the baby arrived. Sitting on the stool of her vanity, she wrapped a thin silk shawl around her bare shoulders and rubbed a bit of cool cream beneath her eyes where the shadows were deep and the wrinkles were more visible than they had been years ago. She felt sore and tired and probably would sleep better with a bellyful of something stronger than wine. If she wanted hard liquor, though, she'd have to see what they had in the kitchen or borrow some from Fenris. She didn't feel like dressing to visit the Gnawed Noble. Besides, she couldn't move through the populace undetected like Isabela could anymore, not as the queen.

Drinking had become something of a ritual between them all during theirs years in Kirkwall, especially for Hawke who bore the brunt of stress as her renown increased and the enemies and challengers became more powerful. Whether in the Hanged Man in Varric's luxurious suite drowning in cheap ale mixed with water or in Hawke's den where the wine was old and expensive, they all managed to relax and let their worries go for at least a little while. Once Hawke was made Viscount, however, everyone scattered to the wind, save for Fenris and Bethany, and there were very few nights of true drunken revelry thereafter.

The idea of sharing a quick nightcap with Fenris grew more appealing as she though about it, and she eventually began to hunt for a pair of shoes to find him in. Tugging on her thin slippers, Hawke padded through the hallway and down the staircase where she stopped in front of Fenris' room. She could see no dim candlelight beneath the door, and it was far too early for him to be asleep. Still, she knocked. He didn't answer.

"Some bodyguard," she whispered playfully, but a small part of her was glad. His absence meant he was doing _something_ other than following her around, moping and looming. Whether that something was training or skulking or fighting or drinking or reading, it didn't matter. A lump of sadness settled in her throat as she turned away from the door, fond smile fading. The feeling astounded and concerned her. He was finally outgrowing her, just like they all had, and leaving at last. For years she'd willed him away, willed him to be on his own and find happiness. Yet now that he had, she felt loneliness creeping up on her, a certain chill settling into her bones.

"This is what you wanted, you old fool," she murmured, turning away and heading up the stairs. "And he's better off somewhere other than by your side." Besides, she had a husband and a kingdom to keep, and there wasn't supposed to be a place for a strange, damaged elf in the castle unless he was washing dishes.

Hawke crept back up to her room and paused before Alistair's door where there _was_ candlelight seeping from beneath and the quiet, snapping of a fire in the grate. She rested her fingertips on the warm wood and leaned her forehead against her arm, sighing softly. Was this what marriage had in store for her? Trading old friends for strangers? Would her nightcaps from then on be shared only with Alistair and his too-gentle eyes?

As she stood there contemplating in the dim hallway, she heard jaunty whistling from behind the door growing louder. Before she could move out of the way, it opened abruptly, nearly sending her to the ground. Instead, she ungracefully stumbled against the frame and met with a pair of startled brown eyes. "Uh...Hawke. Hi," he sputtered.

Straightening, Hawke gave a slightly embarrassed smile. "Uh, I was just about to knock," she lied smoothly.

"Oh," he smiled, taking a step back to give her some room. He held up a small book_._ "I was heading to the library to get some work done...or something."

"You're supposed to be sleeping," she poked him lightly in the chest. "And not working. We agreed."

"Well, you're not sleeping either," he frowned. "And I don't see why I have to follow the rules if you don't. So there, Miss Bossy Pants." Hawke blinked. His eyes twinkled.

"Fine, then," she sniffed playfully, "but my business was social. I just wanted to share a nightcap. You're not supposed to be working. In fact, dear husband, I forbid it." She smiled.

"You can't do that," he argued.

"I can and do. Do you want to drink with me or not? This is our night off."

After a moment, he shrugged. "All right then," he agreed. "I don't have anything to drink, though. We'll have to go to the cellars or call on one of the servants."

"Ooh, I sense an adventure," she hummed. "Isabela left a bottle of wine in my room on the other hand, if you're not feeling particularly brave tonight."

"Doesn't matter to me," he said, turning to set his book on a nearby table next to a wild potted plant. "You look like you're itching to do something, though, so we might as well make the journey to the cellars by ourselves." He held out his arm. "My lady?"

Quite gladly, Hawke hooked her arm through his and allowed him to shut his door before they ventured off down the corridor. They passed Fenris' room on the way down the stairs, and Hawke felt the slight pang of abandonment ring true again before Alistair distracted her by speaking. "I never thought I'd live in this place," he said, looking around as if doing so for the very first time. "It's so big I still get lost, but you've managed to find your way around in such a short time."

Hawke shrugged. "Being the leader of our merry little band meant finding my way around strange territory all the time. The smallest clues can help you find your way if you pay attention."

"The only thing I ever needed to pay attention to was Mahariel's back," he muttered. "Looking at the maps and finding the way was her job."

They turned. "Probably could have helped her a bit."

"Ah, Zevran had that covered," he laughed slightly. "By the time we were exploring places none of us had ever been, they were like peas in a pod. Zev never let her out of his sight. Don't know what he thought would happen. Nothing can hurt Mahariel."

They fell silent momentarily, and Hawke's thoughts strayed to the baby growing slowly in Mahariel's belly. "Do you think...? Do think it'll be all right? The baby?"

Alistair's face became worried, his lips pressed together, staring down as he walked, watching his bare feet. "I hope so," he said, "or we might have problem some time down the line. Not to mention what a sick baby might do to Mahariel and Zev. She's already ill most of the time running herself ragged, and childbirth's dangerous as is, not to mention her small size. And Zev loves that baby already."

Hawke had seen him cooing over it several times, his pointed ear pressed to the swell even in the first weeks, whispering and making an adorable fool out of himself the way only a father could. Once or twice she'd even seen Mahariel smiling weakly at him. No doubt she was frightened of what might happen just as the rest of them were.

Having the baby meant more than just pure delight to Hawke and Alistair, though—it was the preliminary test, the closest they could come to finding out if an untainted person and a Grey Warden could not only conceive a healthy child but also have it safely without actually attempting it themselves. Mahariel's pregnancy seemed like a gift from the Maker, and it would truly be a miracle if it survived. Hawke hoped it would.

Alistair's expression softened. "I would like to see Mahariel and Zevran be parents. They're both orphans of sorts, and I think the baby might give Mahariel a reason to stay out of the grave. And maybe Zev wouldn't stray so much. Not that Mahariel minds, really," he added quickly.

"But you do," Hawke told him, "because, like Fenris, you're an honorable man. You think Mahariel deserves more from her partner."

"Well," he looked away nervously, "yeah. I mean, I'd never... But they're different. Their relationship, I mean. They have needs, but they always come home to each other in the end. I guess that's what matters."

Hawke thought briefly of Anders. She'd never strayed from him, never looked at another man. How could she when Anders devoured her whole? He locked her to him with a passionate fire, consumed her time and energy until she was a burned-out husk and couldn't do much but sleep when she wasn't by his side. Not to mention she'd had other people to deal with, too. Flirting and romance had been far from her mind while trying to keep her possessed apostate safe and sound while he volunteered to swing from a meat hook whenever he could as if determined to make her task impossible.

She sighed, patting his arm gently. "I've had my fair share of men over the years," she admitted, thinking of the guards and mercenaries who came after Anders, a dozen cool, anonymous salves to soothe her aching burns. "I'm done with that, now, though. I'm married, and I intend to stay that way."

"It's this way, Hawke," he stopped suddenly, pointing down a corridor that she'd been walking away from. She stopped, too, and gave him a sheepish smile. He scoffed, "Leader, sure. I think I gave you too much credit."

"Oh, hush up," she chided, ducking around him and down the corridor ahead. She turned around to walk backwards, talking to him as she did so. "I haven't actually been to the cellars yet. What does the king keep down there besides the obvious?"

"Oh, you know, the decaying skulls of all my previous wives and mistresses," he deadpanned, catching up. "They're all set up in a nice little altar. I love ordering the maids to dust it."

"Deviant," she smacked him lightly. "But I was referring to our choice of drink."

He turned thoughtful. "There's wine, obviously, and Zev makes us keep some Antivan brandy down there at all times. Got some dwarven ale mostly for Oghren when he visits, though he hasn't for some time. There's probably sherry and bourbon. I don't usually go into the cellars myself."

The lower they went, the cooler the air became. Hawke tightened the shawl around her shoulders and felt the goosebumps appear across her arms and legs. Alistair had grabbed a torch off the wall and, seeing her shiver, put his arm around her and drew her closer. "Shouldn't have to go too far for a bottle. There's a shelf just past the door. Zev likes his liquor to be easily-accessible." As he spoke, they came to the large doorway, and he ducked inside for a moment before appearing with a dark brown bottle of Antivan brandy. He held it up in the light, and Hawke could see the faded label.

"He won't mind us borrowing this."

"Good," Hawke said, snatching it from his hand, "because I could really use it. Your room or mine?"

"Whatever you like."

* * *

><p>Bethany had never felt such a thick, choking presence of mana before, not even in the tower. The magic seemed to seep from the very streets of Denerim, a combination of uncontrolled magic from the younger refugees and the lyrium-induced powers of the wary Templars stationed around the marketplace. Zevran's men were doing well in organizing the mage families, moving them from their placemats and small camps in alleys and behind buildings into designated camping areas chosen carefully by the king and queen, her sister and brother-in-law, earlier that week.<p>

She saw Zevran on occasion, standing tall with his arms behind his back, chest out and back straight, his faded tattoos and golden skin setting him apart from the bleached mages and armor-clad soldiers. The entire affair struck her as sinister in nature, and Bethany felt uneasy despite the fact that she knew with absolute certainty that the soldiers were only trying to help. The Templars, forced into action by her own sibling, especially unnerved her, and she ducked around them when she saw them coming.

Once or twice she noticed Fenris lurking in the crowd, his lyrium scars bright against his flesh, his glinting, spiking armor and massive broadsword setting him apart from the refugees wrapped in tattered cloaks and strips of cloth to keep warm and dry. She didn't know where he was going, didn't intend to follow him. Why he wasn't protecting her sister, she didn't know, not that Marian needed much protection. Fenris had always been a mystery to her, and his hostility toward mages had always put her off. Only time and exposure to her sister had tempered him to be even remotely civilized around people who could do magic.

The outreaches, near the docks and beyond, the mages became few and far between. Bethany saw only a few tents and campsites as she approached the great docked ships in the harbor, flickering fires burning in the dark of the night well away from the bustle going on inside. Emerging from the main city, she noticed Isabela's ship, grand and beautiful, sitting as idle as its restless captain, bouncing gently on the docile waves. The men were lazing about, drinking early, the torches burning low.

Bethany fingered the letter, her handwriting looping across the front, smeared black against the yellowish parchment. In the past, she'd had trouble finding Merrill. Marian didn't know, but Mahariel and Zevran had separated the two of them long ago, sending Merrill to the Dalish who roamed Ferelden in the Brecilian forest where the young keeper there could help her manage her tendency toward blood magic with Mahariel's blessing. Despite the care and affection Bethany received from the others living in the castle, they weren't mages. Even Mahariel and Zevran, who fought the most passionately for the plight, didn't really know what it was like. Bethany needed the counsel of someone who was proud of her heritage, someone who knew that magic was natural. Merrill had always been a comfort to her, and she hoped to contact her before the dark times ahead, to express her fears before they overwhelmed her totally.

The elf messenger picking through a back of letters at the docks was safe and trustworthy—Mahariel paid him a great deal of coin to make it so. He smiled at Bethany and accepted her letter and the pouch of coins atop without a word before turning back to his bag. And Bethany turned to continue wandering aimlessly, nothing to guide her. In the castle she was safe, but she couldn't help her people.

Bethany had thought a change of pace, being safe and warm, surrounded by little luxuries and breathing air that didn't stink of fire and sewer water would help her mindset, but she was still drowning. Often she fell into despair thinking of all the families not lucky enough to have Marian to guide them to safety. When she looked out the window at the mages begging for scraps of food, sleeping near trash heaps, she had to stop just to catch her breath from the pain. Underground, she saw the worst of it, but she was a part of it then. Now, she was above it, and the thought sickened her.

With Mahariel heavy with child, Bethany's job was to keep them both alive when the time came. Only Zevran, Isabela, and Nathaniel could fight the good fight in their stead, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Bethany needed to be there for them, needed to walk among her people as a social pariah and hold her head up high, damn the danger.

She thought of Anders and his convictions and shivered. He used to be her guiding flame, the one mage who refused to back down. If he hadn't lost himself to his madness, with Marian at his side, he might have been their messiah.

Bethany glanced at the sky, seeing only a few sparse stars, and headed back toward the main throng of shuffling refugees to stand at Zevran's side and ask if there was anything she could do. If nothing else, she could watch from on high as usual and let the truth of their suffering crash down around her.

* * *

><p>Fenris had gone outside to clear his head and get rid of some of his excess energy. He thought perhaps a quick survey of how events were moving in Denerim would be a sufficient use of his time—after all, Hawke was going to bed early that night and had no need of him, really. He'd joked about being her bodyguard, but the truth was that no one needed to watch Hawke. Her sense of danger was keen, her skills more than exemplary. Anyone who might actually pose a threat to Hawke would be more than he could handle. Therefore, he did not feel guilty about leaving her alone for a few hours, though it was entirely possible she could get into trouble in such a short amount of time.<p>

He'd been wandering through the town for some time. Most of the mages were in the camps by the time he paused in his pacing to actually look. Only about ten or so walked through the streets, most of Zevran's men stationed where they should have been. Fenris could see the stealthy assassin giving orders by the castle gates, arms crossed, shoulders heavy with responsibility as his second in command relayed details to him. He'd been there for only about an hour or so, but the marketplace was cleared at last. Fenris watched as Bethany appeared silently by his side, her face wan, eyes clouded, dark purple robe masking her in the night.

Fenris shifted away, avoiding them. Just as he did, he heard a loud voice calling out for him and paused without thinking about it. "Fenris! Hey, what are you doing outside of the castle?" A man. Young. Familiar but not identifiable. Fenris turned around and found himself staring at Alec Ross, the guardsman he met months ago in the training yard.

"Shifting these mages is hard work," he said as he approached, struggling beneath the weight of his heavy armor. His cheeks were slightly red even in the dark, but his eyes were bright and eager. "Did the Captain ask you to help out, too?"

Fenris cast a glance at the illustrious Captain and couldn't hide the frown that followed. "I don't take orders from Zevran," he nearly hissed, voice low and dangerous. Alec seemed slightly startled.

"Right, you only answer to the queen," he said. "Fair enough. No need to get angry about it."

The elf blinked and retreated. "I apologize," he replied and then wondered why he'd bothered. "I have business in the city," he told the boy, attempting to leave without further incident.

"Oh, did you need anyone to come with you?" Alec asked as Fenris turned his back, and cold, armored fingers clasped his wrist as he was walking. The elf tensed, the old, innate expectation of pain stealing his breath away before he triggered his lyrium scars and phased through the boy's fingers, yanking his wrist back. The magic imbedded in his flesh glowed a fierce cerulean, and Fenris felt the momentary panic fled.

It had been years since he'd last felt that fear—the only one who ever touched him was Hawke. The others knew to keep their distance. Even strangers knew. Alec was staring at him in awe. "Woah," he said after a moment, "was _that _the phasing trick?"

Fenris rubbed at the chill on his flesh where the cold armor had made contact, his lyrium markings buzzing as he calmed down. "Yes," he replied tightly, "and I ask you to keep your distance." The glow dissipated completely and left them in darkness save for an overhead torch burning lowly overhead. They were further away from the main square, nearly in the shadows of an alley.

"Sorry," Alec said immediately. "Does it hurt?"

Again it seemed he'd misjudged Alec's intelligence. Fenris often flinched when someone touched him, a very old habit learned from Danarius that he just couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried. Even Hawke silently asked permission with her eyes to avoid the reaction. He must have tensed up when Alec's fingers made contact without realizing it. "Not anymore," he answered quietly. "Only the memory aches now."

"You didn't get those marks by choice, then, I take it." It wasn't a question, and Alec's face fell as he said it, the pity written in his eyes and lacing his words. Fenris shook himself and made to move away again. "Hey, wait! Let me buy you a drink or something before you take care of your business. To say sorry, you know? I'm not very good at this kind of thing."

The word choice confused Fenris, and he narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "You're not very good at what?" he demanded.

To his immense interest, Alec's cheeks colored even more. "Uh, nothing. Just...I'm done with my shift. Let me buy you a round at the Gnawed Noble. You...kinda look tense."

Fenris sighed. His "business" in the city was a lie, and he didn't really have anywhere to go. He cast a quick glance at the castle and thought of his initial intention of burning off some energy. Then he examined Alec a bit closer. The guard seemed harmless enough, if a bit forward and clumsy for Fenris' tastes. Was he bad at making friends? Was that what he meant? If so, that made two of them. Fenris' relationships within their little group had happened gradually, over years, and hadn't been intentional. He'd only wanted someone to help him escape the slavers.

Was it such a bad thing, though, to make new friends even during war? He was losing so many old ones, or dropping out of contact with them at least. There, in the castle, he found himself lonely and idle. "All right," Fenris said softly.

"Really?" Alec's eyes widened, and a child-like glee took over. "Okay, then, let's go." Just like that, he was off toward the Gnawed Noble, and Fenris found himself smiling slightly as he trailed behind. The enthusiasm reminded him of someone he once knew, but, for the life of him, he couldn't remember who.

* * *

><p>"Come on, get up here!" Hawke giggled, smacking her hand against the bed as if beckoning a dog to jump up. "I don't...I can't help you! Those are the rules!"<p>

"No, wait, Hawke," Alistair put his forearms over the bed, "I'm drowning! I can't get up." Hawke took one look at him and toppled over onto her back, laughing so hard her stomach began to ache. The entire bottle of brandy lay fallen over at the bottom of the bed along with the bottle Isabela had left behind, both empty without a drop to spare. Hawke bent onto her side, sucking in breaths of air, trying to breath through the fits of abandoned laughter.

Finally, Alistair crawled up onto the puffy duvet and collapsed beside her, his body shaking with amusement just like hers, their backs touching. "I...I made it!" he declared.

Swallowing, Hawke pushed herself up. "No, no, you were going to drown," she laughed, crawling over him as he turned onto his back. "You can't make it. Get...get off my ship!" She put her hands on his shoulders and tried to shove, but he was lying down against the bed; Hawke only succeeded in pushing him further against the mattress. "Those are the rules, and you can't...can't break them." She was still laughing, the smell of alcohol lingering enticingly in the air between them. Her hair was mussed, and the tendrils fell around her face, curling gently around her ears and at her rosy cheeks.

"Never," he replied, taking her by the shoulders and flipping them over. "It's...my ship now! I shall be the captain, and you can—well, I suppose you can be my first mate if you have to be."

"No!" she smacked his shoulder. "You can't just do that! You have to—to throw the previous captain over the side of the ship! Duh." She made a face at him, shoving lightly at his chest. "And I'm not so easily-" A yawn interrupted her words, and she felt sleepy suddenly, eyes drooping. "Overthrown, my king." She smiled wearily at him and laughed at the expression on his face.

Alistair, too, was distracted by an overwhelming yawn and made a small "oof" noise when Hawke slumped against his chest. He poked her. "We're in the middle of an immense battle," he murmured tiredly, "of epic proportions. Don't you...agh, don't fall asleep yet!"

Weakly, Hawke curled her lovely fingers into a fist and weakly dropped it against his shoulder, her cheek mushed against his chest, their legs entwined. Her eyes were closed and fluttering as she muttered, "Who says...?" The heat of his body was only increasing her fatigue, and she curled close.

"I did," he closed his eyes, nose against her ear.

And they drifted into sleep lying together, their feet by the pillows, a fire burning quietly in the grate, bottles and glasses strewn, just like it used to be when they were off on their different quests, surrounded by friends, trying to find a little bit of peace in so much chaos.

* * *

><p><strong>College demands that I write intelligent papers instead of fiction and my book. Therefore, I have not had time. However, I have not forgotten. Thank you for reading and reviewing despite my absence. For all of you who were waiting for it, here's the next chapter. Let me know what you think.<strong>


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